


I have you for that.

by fleshflies101



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gay, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-18 09:43:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21509041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleshflies101/pseuds/fleshflies101
Summary: Summary: I toyed with the premise that Logan is Sherlock and Patton is Dr Watson. This is a hurt/comfort fic where Logan is pursuing a criminal and slips on black ice and Patton has to try patch him up.Pairing: LogicalityWarnings: Moderate injury, blood.
Relationships: Logic | Logan Sanders & Morality | Patton Sanders, Logic | Logan Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders
Comments: 53
Kudos: 63





	1. Sleep is boring.

Patton watches Logan carefully.

The detective is stood in the centre of a crowded street, turning very slowly on the spot and inspecting his surroundings, searching for something out of place, something Patton can only hope he finds because the doctor hasn’t the faintest idea what they are looking for and neither, it seems, does the Chief inspector, who is peering at Logan just as steadily; both waiting for him to make a move to tell them what to do.

\----------

Logan barely moves, only shifting his feet to alter his viewpoint of the street with his eyes narrowed in concentration. He hardly seems to breathe and people are skirting around him, giving him strange looks, but he ignores them, or appears to; in reality he is inspecting every face as it passes, knowing he could read their life stories in the way they carry themselves, the jewellery they wear, their choice of tie – but he isn’t looking for these things now, he merely scans for what he wants and moves on once he has determined his target is not there –

And then, out of the corner of his eye, in a street full of movement, he catches sight of one person who looks different somehow, and he knows. 

Without warning, he gives chase, and the culprit immediately begins to dart between members of the public swiftly, seeming unhindered by the cold, slippery ground. Logan races after the figure, hearing the Inspector and Patton several paces behind him; he is faster than them, they drop back, slowed by the buffeting crowd. Logan and the suspect slip past vehicles both stopped and moving, pushing aside civilians without a backwards glance, focused on their goal; the killer’s to escape, and Logan to pursue.

The only reason Logan manages to keep the man in sight is his unequalled knowledge of the roads of central New York and accurate guesswork regarding which of the alleyways he is likely to choose as he flees.

The frigid air burns in Logan’s chest, which heaves with the effort of the chase and with the rush of adrenaline associated with it – the excitement pulses through his veins so he is barely paying attention to the treacherous ground and risks losing his footing more than once.

The man turns suddenly right and Logan careens after him, launching himself around the corner too quickly; for a moment, seemingly in almost comical slow-motion, his arms windmill through the air and his feet slide from beneath him as he falls hard sideways. His eyes widen with shock and he feels a searing pain as the side of his knee collides with the ice; his clothes tear under the friction and his arm is scraped along its length, jarring his shoulder. It takes several seconds for him to realise he has stopped moving, and the sickening crack that he heard was his head smacking against the pavement.

He hears shouting, sees a figure run past him; which vaguely recognises as the Inspectors shoes and wonders how he managed to overtake him, or why there is another face in front of him, frowning its concern and speaking to him urgently. He blinks, and the face forms itself into the familiar features of his friend Patton, who is now holding up a hand with four fingers sticking up. Wait. No. Four fingers sticking up and three folded down? Logan shakes his head.

‘Two,’ he answers blearily, trying to push himself to his feet as his vision begins to clear. Patton makes a disapproving noise and tries to peer into Logan’s eyes, checking the pupils as best he can in the poor light. Logan moves away from him, avoiding leaning on his bruised right shoulder. His coat sleeve is ruined, he notices irritably. He likes this coat.

'Logan – slow down –’ Patton warns as Logan manages to stand, and sways on the spot. His leg and arm are both badly grazed and oozing red, but it is the scrape on his head which worries Patton; deepest at his temple, the injury is dripping blood onto Logan shoulder, but the detective simple swipes at it to clear the distraction from his line of sight, winching with poorly disguised pain. He looks as though he is about to attempt to follow the now long gone murder suspect. Patton catches his arm and stops him.

'Let go,’ Logan says simply, trying to tug his arm away, but he stumbles, unsteady. His head is throbbing and the entire right side of his body stings. He’s twisted an ankle, possibly sprained his wrist and very nearly dislocated his shoulder. He thinks he may have concussion. But he needs to – what was he doing? Oh. The suspect, yes, of course – he should be getting on with that. Which way had they gone?

Patton doesn’t let go of Logan’s coat sleeve.

'Chief can get him,’ he tells Logan, 'he knows who he is now, they don’t need you.’ It sounds a little harsh, but he doesn’t want Logan chasing killers through the frozen streets of New York if his slightly dazed expression is anything to go by; he can’t get the sound of his friend’s head hitting the pavement to stop ringing in his ears. Patton takes in the bleeding wound with a carefully medical eye. Logan needs to be checked over at a hospital, ideally, but he knows that his flatmate will refuse. Sure enough, when Patton makes the suggestion, he does.

'Doctors are idiots,’ is his slightly slurred reasoning; Patton decides not to comment, and tries not to let it worry him that Logan is now unusually compliant as he leads the detective to a taxi and informs him they are going back to their flat.

'I’ll call Chief,’ Patton assures him; he knows it is a bad sign when Logan, leaning against the cab window, does not reply. 'Logan?’

'Hmm.’ Logan replies moodily. His eyes are closed, and he winces visibly when they go over a speed bump. Patton pushes his concern away – it’s only a few scrapes, nothing serious. He has nothing to worry about.

'Don’t go to sleep,’

'I am not asleep,’ Logan informs him as clearly as he can while he nods off.

'Logan,’ Patton prods him; Logan waves a hand at Patton in protest, frowning, 'stay awake, Logan, I think you have concussion.’

'Probably,’ says Logan ,

'So you can’t go to sleep, okay?’

'Sleep is boring.’

'I know, so stay awake. Do you know where we are?’

'America.’ Logan still has his eyes closed. Patton has to keep him talking, to reassure himself the other man is still conscious. He rakes his eyes over the injuries once more.

'Where in America ?’ Logan opens his eyes slightly and squints out the window at the passing buildings and people, before closing them again.

'I don’t know.’

Now, Patton is sure Logan has concussion.

How very typical; Logan Sanders, who can race around the city every other day after some criminal or other, place his life in danger in every way imaginable, refusing to eat or sleep when such human needs are a bore to him, take substances Patton doesn’t want to ask about, jump between buildings and straight in front of moving cars, come inches from taking a potentially deadly pill just to prove his own intelligence, get himself half strangled or trapped and still walk away, ultimately, unharmed, and his brilliant mind, his boundless energy, has been brought to a halt, however temporarily, by a stretch of treacherous black ice.

How mundane.

The journey to the flat is not long, but Patton can’t help but spend the whole time watching Logan to make sure he has not fallen asleep. The shallower grazes have mostly stopped bleeding by the time they arrive, dark dried blood now covering the tears in Logan’s pale skin, a much more welcome sight than the brighter red of before. The tissue from Patton’s pocket that Logan is reluctantly pressing to his head wound is not doing a great deal of good, serving little purpose other than to stick to the injury like the grit still embedded there.

Patton pays the driver and hurries towards Logan before he falls.

'Don’t walk too quickly,’ he instructs; Logan huffs moodily, but allows Patton to guide him through the door of the flat and push him gently onto the sofa. Having Patton around is useful, he decides; he needs someone to patch him up after embarrassing incidents like this, he doesn’t have the patience to do it himself. Applying antiseptic and dressings is just too tedious to entertain the idea when he is alone.

He should remove his coat and scarf, and tells himself to do so; by the time Patton has returned from…wherever he went to fetch first aid supplies (Logan is not entirely sure where they are kept, and concludes Patton must have hidden them to prevent their use in some experiment or other; he grudgingly accepts that this is probably a good idea) Logan is still sat in exactly the same position on the sofa, with the ripped fibres of his clothing getting caught in the cuts beneath them.

'Head first,’ Patton announces, dipping a cloth into water and reaching forwards; Logan automatically leans back to avoid his touch. 'Come on, Logan , I have to do this.’

'Leave it, Patton, it’s nothing. I’ve had worse,’ Logan tells him dismissively, attempting to stand. Patton pushes him back gently and starts to dab at the wound despite Logan’s protests.

'It could get infected,’ he says, as though explaining to a child, 'I need to clean it at least.’

Logan doesn’t reply to this, but screws up his face petulantly against the sting of the cleaning process. Patton has warm hands, he notices, and his movements are gentle even if they are irritating and do cause his head to sting so much he draws a quick breath through gritted teeth.

His insides appear to be twisting themselves uncomfortably. Or, he thinks it is uncomfortable. But the squirming isn’t entirely unpleasant, he decides, and the odd lingering tingle after Patton’s skin makes contact with his own is not completely abhorrent.

This is a conundrum. He is sure these aren’t symptoms of concussion, and thinking back, perhaps this is not the first time he has noticed them. His cheeks feel strangely hot at Patton’s closeness; somehow, it is embarrassing. But he doesn’t want Patton to move away. He doesn’t understand it, and he certainly doesn’t understand why Patton’s face has become so fascinating or when it began to seem so interesting to stare at the doctor so.

Logan always stares at people; he watches, he observes, he deduces, and he uses his deductions to his advantage, be it to solve a case, to remove his own boredom or to manipulate people into doing as he wants them to do; usually a combination of all three. He’s never watched a person just to watch, just to see their brow’s furrow slightly in concentration, study as they bite their lip and cringe in sympathy when the antiseptic causes that bit more pain than before.

It has never seemed interesting just to watch, for the sake of watching, but Logan finds he cannot take his eyes off Patton.

Logan is oddly still as Patton dabs antiseptic onto his head, wiping away the blood to find the source, relieved to discover it is not hugely deep. His breathing seems slightly shallower than normal, but Patton puts this down to his injuries and irritation at being confined to a seat while Patton does such boring things as clear dirt from the streets of New York out of the side of his friend’s head.

'You’ve really knocked this,’ he mutters as a way to break the silence, which is unusually awkward; Logan shifts a little in his seat, for which Patton is grateful. His utter statue-like stillness was starting to get unnerving.

'I’d noticed,’ Logan replies dryly. He tries to raise his eyebrows, but judging from the sharp intake of breath, doing so is painful.

'And you couldn’t have slowed down on the ice?’

'Boring. There was a murderer to catch, Patton, did you expect me to sit and watch him escape?’ Patton sighs.

'No,’ he says, 'but you could have a little more regard for your own safety.’

'I have you for that.’

It is stated simply and quietly, but Patton is touched by the sentence and cannot think of a way to reply; his lips quirk into a small smile against his will but he remains silent.

That smile is another puzzle, thinks Logan. Or, more specifically, the odd feeling in his chest when he sees that smile is a puzzle, a mystery he seems unable to solve, like his heart has swollen just a little, and he wants to smile too, but he buries the impulse. He likes it when Patton smiles.

Logan’s pale features twitch momentarily but then become still. Patton frowns and applies a frankly unnecessary amount of concentration to reaching for the butterfly stitches in the first aid box. They won’t cover the whole graze, but they will hold together the deepest gashes until they can heal a little. It is the best he can do.

He spends rather longer than he needs to smoothing the first of the strips of dressing onto the cut, running his thumb over Logan’s prominent cheekbone to make sure it sticks properly. Logan doesn’t object to the prolonged contact, and Patton finds himself reluctant to end it. He gives himself a little mental shake, not sure where this sudden desire to have his hand on his friend’s face has come from.

Inexplicably, he thinks of Sandy and feels guilty. Why should he feel guilty? He has done nothing to her. Well – apart from that date last night, cut short because of Logan’s most recent break in the case. But she said she understood. She seemed happy to let him go, let him follow Logan and promise to make it up to her. She had even smiled and wished him luck.

But now he pictures her face, the smile seemed forced and stiff, and her glance at his phone, still displaying the text, was contemptuous. She was angry. She probably still is angry; it is hardly the first date to be delayed or cancelled because of Logan, and patient as she is, there must be a limit to the number of times she will stand for him leaving her alone, seemingly in preference of his flatmate’s company.

Pulling his hand away from Logan with a little jerk which seems to startle the dark haired man, Patton carefully picks up another butterfly stitch, moving unnecessarily slowly.

He didn’t leave the date for Logan, he reminds himself, he left for the case. He left so he could help catch a killer and save lives, he left for justice. But the guilt is still there.

Oddly, the thing he feels most guilty about isn’t leaving her once, or any of the number of times he has in the past; it is the knowledge that he will do so again, and again, and whenever Logan asks him to. Grudgingly, grumpily, reluctantly, complaining and irritated, but he will always come when Logan calls. The thought should make him resolve not to do so, it should make him decide to say no every once in a while. But it doesn’t.

Sandy is very pretty, she is intelligent, funny, and understanding; so why is the little flutter in his chest stronger when he sees the brilliant light of a case in Logan’s eyes than when he sees her face? Why does he find himself preferring Logan’s company over Sandy’s? And why hasn’t he moved his hand from Logan’s cheek yet?

Patton’s thumb leaves a trail of warmth on Logan’s face where it has rubbed the dressing smooth, which lingers even when the doctor moves his hand away. Not really aware why he does it, Logan scrunches up his face as though he has an itch, and the corner of one of the strips comes away; Patton reaches out to press it back down and Logan finds himself pleased, for some reason.

He does not understand this.

He does not understand why he wants Patton’s hand to remain there, or why for a man so content to sit on his own and talk to a skull, he always seems to keen to have Patton’s company. Patton is ordinary. Patton is plain and Patton is simple; Patton is like everyone else. Boring.

Except he is not; Patton is extraordinary because he didn’t tell Logan to piss off. Patton is interesting because he has not yet left Logan. Patton defies Logan’s expectations because he hasn’t yet taken everyone’s advice to stay away, because he shot a man to save Logan, whom he barely knew, because he walks away from dates and dinners and work for Logan, because he is still here. It makes Logan feel…he isn’t sure what the term is. But he knows that he doesn’t want the feeling to stop; he likes it.

Patton is not plain and simple and boring, but Patton is outwardly nothing special. He is…comforting, to Logan. And Logan doesn’t know why.

Even stranger, he doesn’t know why he suddenly finds himself wanting to close the gap, only a few inches wide, between their faces. This is interesting.

Patton, quite separately from Logan, does know what to label what he feels when he sees Logan, he knows very well what to call the feeling when he watches the brilliant man solve cases no one else could, he knows why he feels so desperately unhappy when Logan is in one of his moods. But he doesn’t want to know; it makes no sense, he can’t…he just can’t.

What about Sandy? What about the fact that Logan’s is a sociopath? What about the fact that Logan is a man?

What about the fact that Logan’s face is so very close to his and his breath is warm, his skin is cold and his eyes are searching Patton’s so intently?

Patton moves forwards slowly, very slowly, almost unconsciously; Logan doesn’t lean back, he stays completely still, his expression remaining exactly the same. It’s not fair, Patton thinks, it’s not fair that Logan should be able to sit there so calmly and not…not what? This is nothing; he is simply dressing a wound for a friend too stubborn to go to hospital.

So why is he that little bit closer to Logan? Why is his discomfort at their proximity so close to being all too comfortable?

Logan shifts in his seat and Patton jumps back guiltily, scolding himself furiously but silently, feeling his cheeks grow hot. What on Earth is he thinking?

But…but Logan doesn’t seem…he looks disappointed when Patton leans away.

Then they are both moving forwards, ever so slowly, so it seems to take an age to be back within an inch of each other, two pairs of eyes darting across the opposite face nervously, searching for signs of regret, signs of discomfort or disgust.

Logan doesn’t know why he is doing this, he never does anything like this, but he knows what he wants to do…perhaps doing so will be an interesting experiment…just to observe the effect on himself, of course, and to see Patton’s reaction…

Lips meet.

Patton’s insides are dancing, his head is spinning, he is breathless and uncertain and sure.

Logan is warm, he is comfortable, he is happy.

This is not boring.

And then it’s over; brief and tentative, the kiss leaves both men reeling despite the fact their touch was only feather-light. Logan searches Patton's face for his reaction and finds it confused, but perhaps…or is he imagining it? A little pleased. Patton searches Logan’s face for regret, and finds none.

He leans forwards once more, faster this time and holds Logan's face in his hands, kissing him furiously – Logan responds just as fast and knots his hand into Patton's short hair, forgetting to reason and analyse for a moment and catching himself just acting, just because he wants to, just because this makes him happy, and he doesn’t care why.

Patton pulls away first, leaning his forehead against Logan’s and feeling dizzy with confusion and overwhelming emotion he doesn’t have the concentration to name right now. He doesn’t let go of Logan.

'That hurts,’ Logan speaks quietly, matter-of-factly; Patton grabs his hand away from the cuts on Logan’s face as though he has been burnt and knocks the first aid kit sideways in his clumsy rush to move away, suddenly furious with himself, humiliated at what he’s done, he feels himself going bright red and refuses to look Logan in the eye.

'Sorry,’ he mutters.

'I didn’t say I wanted you to stop.’

He is smiling. A real smile that Patton loves, that Patton can’t help but mimic as he finds himself leaning forwards again; he doesn’t bother to think as he crushes his lips against Logan’s once more.


	2. Content

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the black ice incident

There is a moment, when you have finished laughing, that the endorphins wear off and the humour is gone. Your mood sinks back, not to its normal level but below, a strange lull in which you cannot remember what you found amusing in the first place; a unique kind of sadness settles over you. Perhaps it is that you miss the laughter, perhaps in its absence your ordinary mood simply seems low, or it could be the return to thought, because when you laugh, really laugh, reality floats away for a while and its return is almost always unwelcome.

And yet – Patton feels none of that now.

No. Now he feels content. There is no other word for this warmth and comfort, this pleasure at just being, just sitting, not thinking and worrying and working – just existing in a happy limbo between sleeping and waking where nothing much matters but the soft, warm cushions and the slow, deep sound of Logan's breathing beside him. Nothing exists beyond this bubble, or at least none of it is important.

It started with him shifting position; knelt in front of Logan, who was sat on the sofa some hours ago now, somehow having gone from fixing dressings to the detective's cheek to kissing him, Patton's knees had very inconveniently decided to protest at the awkward position and he had begun to feel his leg muscles cramping painfully.

He tried to move into a more agreeable position carefully, subtly, without shifting his upper body very much and just rearranging his legs and feet beneath him – all without breaking the kiss, not wanting to give his brain a chance to catch up and think better of his actions.

He promptly got his ankles tangled in the attempt and toppled over backwards ridiculously, sending the first aid kit flying and laying sprawled on the floor for several long seconds while Logan stared and his face grew hot and red.

And then he laughed.

He saw the slight quirk of Logan's lips, that smirk, almost a smile, that made his eyes dance in a way that is exquisitely Logan, not completely open but not completely hidden either; a rare, split second glimpse into his mind, and Patton laughed. He laughed because he was happy. He laughed at the absurdity of the situation. He laughed to shake off his embarrassment at the fall, he laughed simply to feel the sheer joy of laughing itself. Then Logan joined in, his face breaking into a radiant grin only slightly hampered by a wince of pain, soon forgotten, and then they were both grinning and giggling and gasping between fits of breathless amusement at nothing at all, and everything in the world.

It seemed a long time before they stopped, neither knowing what had really made them start in the first place, but it might only have been a few minutes after all. However long it was, or wasn't, Patton found himself, still smiling though his cheeks ached and his lungs were tired from the effort, pulling himself to his feet only to collapse with a sigh onto the sofa beside Logan.

Several moments of easy silence passed before Patton reached for the TV remote as though it was the most natural thing in the world and settled himself into the welcoming cushions, not really paying attention to whatever programme he had turned on.

And soon he found himself that bit closer to Logan, without having any conscious memory of either of them moving. Not long after that, they were closer still, and Logan's eyelids were drooping with tiredness; Patton fought the urge to prod him awake, reasoning that at least there was a doctor on hand should anything happen.

But his own eyelids were heavy and felt like sandpaper, his muscles were weary from the chase through the streets and the fit of laughter seemed to have drained the last of his energy...

Now, he wakes in darkness; the television is still on, some overly dramatic medical drama Patton remembers seeing at some point before, though the fact registers without a great deal of interest. He lets it play on because he doesn't want to move to reach for the remote, which has fallen to the floor.

At some point, his head has found its way onto Logan's chest, and Logan's arm is thrown carelessly over Patton's shoulder, fingers curled loosely where they hang in front of him. Patton's whole body is moved gently by the steady rise and fall of the sleeping detective's ribcage; one of his legs is sprawled across the sofa, the other is dangling to the floor, while Logan's are neatly stretched out and crossed at the ankles, right over left to avoid aggravating his injuries.

Patton looks down and realises, with a not too unpleasant start, that the fingers of Logan's other hand are entwined with his own. The sight makes him smile, and without actually deciding to do it, he is tightening his grip. Logan stirs but does not wake – if anything, Patton thinks Logan's hold on his hand has become stronger.

He feels sleep beckoning him once more and does nothing to stop it; he has no desire to move from this spot at any point in the foreseeable future. He allows his eyes to close and his head to drop back again to its resting place directly above Logan's heart, letting the soft beat sooth him like a lullaby until he falls sharply and startles himself back to sudden wakefulness – Logan, too, blinks and shifts groggily.

For a split second, everything is as if this arrangement were perfectly normal; the only thing which registers in Patton's sluggish mind is that it is a rare thing to see Logan with that same slow, early morning look which every other human being on the planet exhibits as a matter of course on opening their eyes for the first time.

Then it seems to hit him as if he is only just realising.

He is laid across Logan's chest.

He is practically wrapped in Logan's arms.

He is holding Logan's hand.

He tries to pull himself away, sit himself up – maybe if he manages to detangle himself from the detective's long limbs he will be able to think clearly and come up with an acceptable explanation for this...but Logan has not let go of him. He has stiffened, and stopped Patton from moving, muttering something like 'irrational'.

What is irrational Patton doesn't know, but he freezes – doesn't move away or relax, not sure which would be worse right now. Logan – Logan pulls him back.

'What's irrational?' Is all Patton can manage to make himself say, though his mouth seems to have difficulty forming the words and it comes out as little more than a croak. It's as though a strange mist has lifted, and now, seeing what he has done...he wants to say he regrets it. He wants to say that he has never thought about finding himself in this position, never wondered idly what it might be like. He wants to say any number of things which refuse to occur to him right now because all reasonable thought flew out of the window as soon as he felt Logan's words rumbling through his chest, which he is still laid on – not entirely reluctantly.

'Moving,'

'Right...why is moving irrational?' He clears his throat, hoping it will encourage his voice to return to normal.

'This is comfortable,' Logan offers as explanation.

Patton almost laughs again. Almost – his eyes do crease at the corners and his lips do twitch slightly, but that's as far as his expression goes. Of course this is simple to Logan – he has decided not to bother himself with the social ramifications of kissing his best friend, but to accept its occurrence as natural, because what reason could there be not to? It entertains him, therefore Logan will do it, and damn the consequences. Patton wishes he could be so dismissive.

Logan does not have a girlfriend to worry about.

Oh, God. Sandy. What on Earth is he supposed to say?

Is there anything to say?

Of course there is.

But...but if it didn't happen again – if he can put it down to Logan's head injury –

And what is his own excuse?

But this isn't real, it can't be real, it just – this is Logan, this is impossible...he knows it is impossible – it has to be.

'Stop torturing yourself Patton,' a pause, which hums loudly between them for two seconds that last an eternity, 'do you regret it?'

If Patton hadn't known better, he would say there was some doubt behind Logan's otherwise imperious tone. He replies before he has had a chance to process the question, let alone formulate an acceptable response.

'No,' he says – and means it. Logan smiles, just a little; Patton can't see it, but he feels the ever so slight relaxation of muscles beneath him.

'Neither do I,' something in the statement makes Patton feel...warm. It is stated as simple fact, in the same tone Logan might use to inform Patton of one of his most basic deductions or Patton might announce a shortage of milk, but all the same Patton finds he knows what it means and he...he sighs. Like a teenage girl, he berates himself, like a stupid, clumsy, ditzy teenage girl. Logan chuckles softly; Patton can feel the vibrations in the detective's chest where he lays, and makes another, gentler, attempt to sit up.

'I still need to clean your wounds,' he says, for all the world as though nothing has happened. Logan, grudgingly, allows the doctor to stand and watches curiously as he gathers the scattered remains of the first aid supplies from where they have fallen to the floor.

The whys and the hows of these strange new – or – well, are they new? – feelings Logan is having can wait – currently it is enough to know that they exist, and acting on them is not boring, and so they are acceptable – no further examination is really needed. After all, he's married to his work, but Patton is rather a part of his work now isn't he?

He sits through Patton's treatment of his cuts in relative cooperation, making only a few snide comments and once – purely out of curiosity to see what reaction it will elicit – while Patton is placing a dressing on his leg, Logan leans down and kisses the top of the doctor's head. It is a nice feeling, and Patton's hair tickles his nose. Though he only receives a grunt in reply, he sees the change in Patton's expression as the colour rises on the doctor's face, and decides that this is definitely a worthwhile experiment after all.

Once Logan's injuries are cleaned and dressed, Patton demands that he change his clothes, for which Logan throws him a reproachful look.

'They're dirty, ripped, and probably still wet, Logan, go take them off,' he instructs firmly, pointing towards Logan's room.

He is sure – and it does not make him happy, it does not amuse him in the slightest, of course it doesn't – that as Logan lets the bedroom door swing shut behind him, he winks.

Patton shakes his head as he turns away, running his hand through his hair. He isn't certain what's happening here, but finds that so long as he doesn't think about it too much, it won't bother him. As with everything else with Logan, it seems best to just let things happen.

Of course, the rest of the world might have other ideas and Sandy chooses this moment to text him. He stands for a moment, hovering in indecision, before he closes it without replying.

What is he supposed to say?

'That depends,' says Logan; Patton jumps as his flatmate walks into the room, still buttoning his shirt up.

'I'm sorry – what?'

'Sandy – I'm assuming the text was from her – you don't talk to many people and if it were the Chief inspector you would have told me. If it was your brother you would've either reply straight away or just ignore it, but you stood there, you couldn't decide – like you wanted to reply but couldn't think of what to say. Given the current situation it seems a fairly plausible assumption that it's from Sandy. Was I right?' He asks coolly.

'Yes,' Patton replies shortly, 'but that's not what I was asking.'

'What were you asking then? Try to be more specific Patton; it will save an awful lot of time,' he sounds the same as ever, as though this is nothing to him, and Patton feels suddenly angry at this – at the fact that the detective can behave as though nothing has happened, nothing has changed, while Patton is stuck feeling so confused. It's not, he admits, like he has never thought about this – wished for it, even, on worse days, in the past...but now that it's happened, and all the complications that have come with it...

'I meant, depends on what?' Patton clarifies carefully; Logan raises his eyebrows, and then looks at Patton with that disapproving frown he dons when the police have missed something he deems obvious at a crime scene.

'It depends on whether you intend it to happen again.'

Patton is disappointed by the indifference in Logan's voice, and this in itself is enough of an answer to him, but he won't say it. He won't.

'I have to tell her either way,' he argues,

'Why? If it never happens again it won't affect her, I don't see why she needs to know,'

'I'd be lying to her – it's not fair, it's...I just can't.'

'You wouldn't be lying, you would be omitting the truth, there is a difference. What's the problem? People do it all the time.' He sounds genuinely bemused by the issue – as far as he is concerned, it seems to Patton, there is no issue.

Logan is, not for the first time, exceedingly glad of his acting abilities – glad that Patton cannot see that he is practically holding his breath waiting for a reply, and though he is loathed to admit it even to himself something like fear is making his heart beat irritatingly quickly, as though determined to give him away. He feels a rush of anger towards Sandy, but stifles it quickly before it can show on his face. He is not jealous. Not in the slightest – he is merely impatient, and wishes Patton would just answer already.

'Logan – you really don't have a clue, do you? It's just...she has a right,' he tries to keep the exasperation out of his voice, he really does, but he hears it leaking in all the same.

'You haven't answered my question,'

'I just did,'

'Not that one.'

'I wasn't aware you had asked another one. What were you saying about saving time?' Patton has his hands on his hips now, but out-staring Logan is proving to be an impossible task and he knows – of course he knows – what Logan is referring to – but he is hoping to put off the moment when he has to form a reply.

'Touché,' Logan says, deliberately forcing himself to speak slowly so as not to give away his – not nerves, he does not get nervous, but...he cannot think of a word to adequately describe this feeling. It is new, and unwelcome. 'Do you intend it to happen again?'

'That's not exactly solely my choice is it?' Patton counters quickly,

'Do stop answering my questions with your own. What if I were to say it was your decision?' Logan asks irritably,

'Hang on – are you – this is a valid question!' Patton snaps in response to Logan's raised eyebrows, 'are you saying you want it to?'

Logan is silent for a long time and when he speaks, he addresses the floor, quietly, petulantly, as though it has been forced from him.

'Yes.'

Pause. Logan's heart hammers. He wonders if the expression on his face, despite his best efforts, mirrors that on Patton's, of guarded anticipation and barely suppressed hope.

'You – what – really?' Patton is shocked, not only by Logan's answer, but by the wave of relief it causes when he hears it...oh yes, he thinks ruefully, he is most definitely, completely, royally screwed. He swallows as he waits for Logan's reply. This can't be real. It's not – he's – it can't be, after forcing himself never to think, never to look too closely at the little flutters in his stomach, never to inspect with too much scrutiny why he finds Logan's smile so alluring, or why he sometimes catches himself staring...he is almost shaking with feelings ignored, feeling suppressed, for far too long.

'Yes, Patton, yes, you know perfectly well what I said!' Logan hisses, suddenly loud as he turns and storms towards the kitchen to avoid looking at the doctor. ``I have to admit, it was not entirely dull, and you seemed to enjoy it, so –'

'You don't have to explain yourself,' Patton interrupts, barely stifling his laugh, which bubbles forth with a swell of lightheaded disbelief and tentative, shaky delight.

'I was under the impression that –' Logan begins,

'My answer is yes, too, by the way.'

'Oh,' Logan pauses again, '...good.'

Then they are looking at each other and the bubble is back and nothing else exists and Patton rolls his eyes, curses himself for making stupid, stupid decisions, then makes one anyway. Closing the gap between himself and Logan, he kisses him frantically. Logan responds just as enthusiastically; Patton's hands are pressed against Logan chest, the purple shirt still only half buttoned. He snakes one under the fabric so his palm is pressed against Logan's skin, feeling its warmth tingling against his fingers and almost stumbling with the overwhelming rush of emotions.

Logan has one hand in Patton's hair and the other on the small of his back – nothing, nothing else matters – the feel of Patton's tongue against his is intriguing, surprisingly desirable, and this, this is what he wants. He doesn't know what it means or why or whether he can stop it or whether he wants to stop it, but everything right now, everything is Patton –

Patton breaks away, gasping, and Logan continues to kiss him, 'breathing, Logan!' Patton reminds him; he feels Logan's smile more than sees it.

'Breathing's boring,' he reiterates; Patton has to agree that it certainly seems that way next to this alternative, but he laughs and pushes gently against Logan, leaning back without stepping away, feeling quite dizzy. He can still taste Logan's lips. This is real.

Patton decides now that everyone – everyone in the world – has the worst timing possibly imaginable, because both his and Logan's phones sound at almost the exact same moment. It is almost worth it to see the look of something like disappointment on Logan's face.

'Sandy,' says Patton, resignedly,

'Chief,' says Logan – their culprit has escaped. Of course Chief inspector was unable to catch him...how had he ever been convinced otherwise? He should never have allowed Patton to bring him back here after the fall...but then, if he hadn't...

To his surprise, he is actually torn between leaving to resume the chase and staying here.

Patton sighs, and between them there passes one of those looks in which an entire conversation can be had without speaking a word.

'Meet you at Angelo's – two hours?' Logan asks as Patton steps away; Patton nods and nothing more need be said.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn.

Patton is in a taxi. Travelling towards Sandy...travelling away from Logan.

It is telling enough that he wishes he were facing the other way, that he wants nothing more than to turn, to hide, to run, to do anything other than face the woman who is supposed to be his girlfriend. He had chosen to ignore these feelings, to move on – they were pointless, they would fade, it wasn't like Logan would ever be interested anyway – not like Patton wanted to be interested in the first place.

War does not frighten him – guns do not frighten him, Logan's brother does not frighten him. Not really.  
Remus scares him. A little. A lot. Whatever. It's a reasonable thing to feel, he thinks defensively – he would be truly insane, if his other actions do not already make him so, to not be afraid of Remus.

But this...this terrifies him. The thought of saying this, of telling her – what the Hell is he going to tell her?

Logan Sanders is not an emotional man by any stretch of the imagination – emotions, as a rule, are irrelevant, unimportant hindrances which serve only to slow him down and distract him from far more pressing matters, taking concentration and energy from the workings of his brilliant mind and stopping his brain functioning to its highest, most efficient capacity; unnecessary software he has long since deleted.

As a rule.

But then, what interest does conformity hold to him? It's the anomalies, the mistakes, the differences that are always much more fascinating, much more fun to work out – puzzles are his element, and this is certainly a puzzle.

There are a few people – very few people – who can be said to receive at least some level of what is almost affection from Logan. Occasionally there are those for whom Logan holds rather dubious levels of respect, though this often doesn't last long and of course he would never admit to it. There are those who fascinate him, but these usually tend towards the kind of people Patton would deem not good.

There is Mrs Higgins, though; she is sweet and mothering, she scolds Logan, she insists she is not his housekeeper but still pops over once in a while to check both he and Patton are taking care of themselves properly, she hugs him and he permits her to – he even hugs her sometimes, she gets annoyed with him, yet she never stays so for very long. In short, she humours him, and he appreciates this.

There is the Chief inspector, if he really pushes the limits of the definition...certainly he tolerates the man, because he needs him in order to be allowed onto the really interesting cases, and once or twice – no more – Chief has even managed to earn grudging, always silent, approval from Logan.

Yes. There are some who Logan regards in a less than entirely deprecating manner.

And yes, there are some who manage to put up with Logan on at least a semi-regular basis without resorting to the usual childish jibes or petty grudges for whatever social grace he has bypassed most recently.

There is Roman who works at the morgue, whose infatuation with Logan is with a version of Logan who doesn't exist. He admires Logan, he may even have convinced himself he loves him. But he sees what he wants and closes his eyes to the rest, filling in the blanks with what he wishes were there. He convinces himself that Logan is someone he is not, nor will he ever be. His feelings are for a figment of his own imagination.

Chief, and perhaps a select few of the rest of the police force, put up with him because they need him. They need his expertise, they are desperate, and they turn to Logan because they have no other choice.

Angelo's warmth is from gratitude and some misplaced belief that he owes Logan; his own brother's imitation of caring is somewhere between the dutiful older brother and the infuriating busybody.

None of this bothers Logan in the slightest; to be honest he couldn't care less either way what they think of him, good or bad; such minor concerns have long ago been consigned to an area of his mind he never looks in any more.

But then, there is Patton.

Patton is the exception to the rule – to every rule – he is fascinating, he is unpredictable in his own way, he praises Logan in the same breath as telling him off, he gets angry and frustrated but no matter what Logan says or does, he never leaves. He is just...Patton, and that is the only way to describe him. Logan cares what Patton thinks, he cares what Patton regards as good or not good. He...cares.

Patton Watson, who owes Logan nothing and to whom Logan owes everything, who is loyal beyond rationality, who looks at Logan and sees what there is. He does not try and kid himself into thinking there is any more or less than what is plainly in front of him, he doesn't gloss over what he doesn't like or invent excuses for his flatmate's behaviour...he is regularly infuriated to within an inch of walking out, but he never does – he shouts and storms away, but he always comes back.

He is possibly the only person who sees both the good and the bad in Logan, and does not place one above the other merely to better fit whatever image it suits him to create. He sees Logan, and he accepts it. And that is different. And different is interesting.

Logan is not blind, he has known this for a long time that there is something quite unique about Patton, something altogether captivating in a way no one else ever has been. He has recognised it, of course, he knows that it's there, but even now he can't really say that he knows what it means. Which is of course part of the intrigue.

He knows that he can read Patton in a different way to how he reads other people – it's not all deduction, it's...familiarity, it's something he can't quite put a name to. This frustrates him, this gap in his knowledge, but it is one he thinks, with a smile, that Patton will soon fill. He would not have anyone else do so.

He knows that he had not really registered the depth of whatever it is until he saw that bomb...until for a split second he was completely helpless to protect Patton, and all the oxygen in the room seemed to have vanished. He quite literally couldn't breathe – it had actually physically hurt. He had never experienced anything quite like that before.

He remembers that the weeks – the weeks, not the days, of being in hospital, of waiting those long, long hours for his body to repair itself and for Patton to recover – were unbearable. He remembers every second of it, he remembers the single, dreadful moment of waking up alone in the sterile room, when his brain had fed him information but not enough, when he had thought that Patton was dead.

He has tried to delete the memories, but they will not go away.

He will never forget the crushing knowledge that came to light then, that he is not, in fact, in control of his emotions, at least not as much as he would like to be.

He had hated that knowledge. He hated the vulnerability that came with it, he hated not being a machine, a brain on its own, he hated having to have a heart and having to feel. He wanted nothing more than to banish those terrible emotions forevermore.

He never imagined they could make him feel so...so...he doesn't even know how to describe it.

He doesn't pretend to understand what is happening – but he doesn't pretend to resent it quite so much anymore, if only because he is no longer bored.

Truth be told, regardless of this unusual...connection? Something of the sort anyway – he had never actually considered a physical relationship with Patton. It had never interested him.

Since the incident, things have changed, yes – he has had to adjust to the realisation of the depth of these emotions, had to get over the resentment they initially caused. But it had been quite a novel sensation to discover himself wondering, while Patton treated his wounds, what the doctor's lips might taste like, what they would feel like against his own...still stranger to find that, when Patton pulled away and his lips curved into that tiny smile, his insides had seemed to sort of...turn over, though not unpleasantly. He had not expected that the pressure of Patton's hand on his cheek was not only welcome, but wanted, or that waking up with Patton draped over his chest would be quite so comfortable.

It certainly demands further experimentation, at any rate – which Logan eagerly anticipates.

I was hoping you wouldn't realise.

Why is it that Sandy's understanding, her almost complete lack of resentment, makes Patton feel even more guilty? He feels sick with it, he hates himself for what he has done to her, and yet all she did was smile and kiss his cheek and tell him she saw it coming long before he did. How, he can't imagine – how could she have seen what he himself had not realised – or accepted at least, until...well, until now? And why is he so ready to end things with her when he has absolutely zero guarantee of...of anything, with Logan or anyone else? Even though the words were so difficult to bring forth, why is the emotional parting so...easy?

Of course, he hadn't actually said anything much at all, he realises, as he walks away from her house with immense relief. He had arrived, she had let him in – he apologised for ending their date prematurely and she smiled, a little sadly.

It's fine, I know this detective thing you have with Logan is important...

Was it wrong that he had felt just a tiny bit irritated when she referred to it as a 'detective thing', like it was some sort of child's playground entertainment?

He couldn't bring himself to say it properly; he likes Sandy, he does, but just...it's somehow not as strong for her. Somehow different. Maybe it's the danger, the excitement, the distinctiveness that simply is Logan. Maybe it is something else but much as he hasn't any idea what he does actually want, or what this means, he knows that his uncertainty means it cannot be Sandy. To pretend it could be would not be fair.

Sandy is pretty. Beautiful. She is smart, brave, fun...her company is...it's...fine. That word for when you don't want to talk about it, that it could be worse, that acceptable, that bland, ordinary word that is...well, it's fine. Nothing special, but nothing to complain about...yes. Sandy is fine. Great, perhaps. In another time, he really thinks he could be happy with her.

But Logan is not fine. Logan...Logan leaves him speechless. He is almost as far from perfection as it is possible to come. Logan is flawed, and dangerous, and Patton should be running as fast as he can in the opposite direction, but...he needs him.

Patton and Logan are in many ways complete opposites, but only in so far as two jigsaw pieces are opposites, their differences the entire reason they fit together. Logan is the reason Patton is alive again after being sent home from Afghanistan, the reason he is living again, not just existing.

Logan, who owes Patton nothing, and to whom Patton owes everything.

Sandy, who is fine.

It's not that.

There had been a long pause after he had said that. Sandy was the one to break the silence.

I get it.

She was clearly angry, clearly annoyed with him or with Logan or with herself, clearly she resented one or even all three of them, but the fact that she had been so very patient and kind, controlled...it only made Patton feel worse for what he had done.

See you at work, then.

Her parting comment. So normal. So offhand. He knows it will not last, he knows there will be awkward moments and guilty glances, sadness and anger, arguments...but much as the guilt is crippling, the relief is even more stimulating, and he walks with a lighter step than before as he heads towards Angelo's, feeling...relaxed.

Logan is...things will not be normal...but Patton has never liked normal anyway.

Patton arrives at Angelo's ten minutes late; Logan doesn't turn up until almost a quarter of an hour after that and the only thing even remotely out of the ordinary is that, even though Patton's cheeks redden when Angelo puts it down, neither of them object to the candle this time.

Logan, Patton realises, never has.

There isn't really much to 'small talk' where Logan is concerned; the detective wastes no time in denouncing it as boring and pointless, with which Patton has to agree, so there are no awkward moments of asking questions neither wants to hear or giving answers neither cares to think about. Instead, Logan instantly deduces the life stories of their fellow diners and Patton listens to his animated explanations, littered with a great deal of 'obviously's and 'of course anyone can see's.

Which, Patton reminds him, they can't – Logan scoffs at this, Patton rolls his eyes, Angelo grins and offers free desert, which Patton demands that Logan eat, and all in all very little seems to be any different than every other meal at this restaurant or any other.

Patton isn't sure if this should unnerve him or reassure him – how easy it seems already, how natural...how little has changed, really, when so much should have. It does both, and he ends up feeling slightly giddy from happy confusion.

Logan maybe smiles more than usual, but he is still abrasive and Patton has to remind him several times of those things which are not good to say. Patton doesn't try and stop himself from watching the way the candle lights Logan's face and makes the tips of his dark hair shine orange. They might, as they leave, be walking slightly closer than they would have before, but Patton only notices because Logan's fingers are brushing his as they do; Logan has warm hands, Patton thinks, and resists the urge to take one in his own. Logan smirks. Patton tries to hate him, and fails.

They climb into the taxi. Patton decides not to spend too much time wondering why something he is almost sure was a date with Logan, was so very similar to any number of times when it most certainly was not. It's easier, he thinks, to accept 'it' for whatever it might be, and never mind struggling with labels. He informs Logan that when they get back to Baker Street, they are watching a film, and Logan is forbidden to guess the ending – or at the very least, forbidden to voice his suspicions.

But they never make it back to the flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify Deceit takes on the Jim mortiarty role


	3. Logan.

There is less noise than before.

Still noise, but less than there was. Or at least, different now to then. Now it is voices – people. He doesn't know how many. His brain isn't functioning well enough to separate one from the next or even to try and figure out how close they might be, or why so many of them sound almost panicked.

Voices are a nicer sound than the last one he remembers hearing, even if they are afraid.

There was a scream, before. It might have been him. He doesn't know. He is confused.

There was a screech too, but that wasn't human. Machinery. Brakes, perhaps, though why this thought occurs to him he isn't sure.

There was breaking glass.

There was crunching metal.

There was someone, he thinks, calling his name, or perhaps that is his imagination.

There were headlights, too. That was before the crunch. His brain isn't remembering things in order. Headlights shining on him, shining bright bright bright...

Candles are bright. Why does he think of candles?

Little candles. Little flame. Little light.

Not like car lights. They are big and staring and yawning wide, burning, they hurt his eyes. But the candle is pretty. He wants the candle back. The candle reminds him of being quiet and warm and safe. It makes him think of smells. Smells that he likes. Food smells and coffee smells and nicotine smells.

Except he doesn't smoke, so why does he like nicotine smells?

It's a puzzle. He knows someone who likes puzzles. Maybe he should ask them. Who does he know who likes puzzles? He can't remember. But he thinks they will know the answer, so he tries to think of a name so he can find them...

And this makes him think about other things.

It's not only this person's name he can't remember. What is his own name? And why are the voices so scared? And why is he sore? And why is one of the voices much closer than the others?

He opens his eyes. Just a little bit. Not enough to see properly, but he makes out an olive skinned, blurry face in front of him. Not the face he wants to see. The face he wants to see is pale, and it likes puzzles, but he can't remember the name which belongs to that face, and this annoys him.

'Are you awake now?' The face asks him. This voice has an accent, but he can't place it. 'Are you okay?'

The voice is concerned. Why is it concerned?

'Do you hear me?' Too many questions. The face is asking too many questions. 'Do you know your name?'

And it comes to him, without really thinking about it very much. It hurts to think.

'Pat.Pa..Patton,' he mumbles.

Patton blinks, and forces his eyes to open further. The anxious face of the taxi driver with the heavily accented voice stares back at him through the broken window, frowning. Why is the window broken?

'I climb through front screen,' says the driver, 'you climb out too?' Patton groans and tries to move, still not sure what has happened, but finds he cannot shift himself very far without it hurting, so he stops.

'No,' Patton manages, very quietly, 'I'm stuck...'

'Is okay,' says the driver, glancing over his shoulder. 'I call ambulance, they be here soon. Fire come too, they cut you out.' He attempts to curl his mouth into a reassuring smile but it is hampered by fear, his eyes darting around nervously, sickeningly fast. Patton closes his eyes. His head hurts, and he still doesn't know how he got here, wherever here is.

'There was accident,' the man tells him, 'car accident – I okay, I climb out. Not many injuries. But you are stuck. They will cut you out. Do not worry Patton.'

Patton doesn't reply, and the taxi driver's voice becomes urgent.

'No sleep!' He exclaims, 'you keep talk to me, yes? No sleep now, you stay awake and you talk to me. I am Eduardo Lopez-Covas, you talk to me, okay?'

For some reason, the instructions sound familiar, but again, Patton cannot place them. He is forgetting something important, he knows. He tries to look around, as if this might give him some sort of clue, but Eduardo shakes his head frantically.

'No, no! You keep look at me, you look this way and you talk to me, yes?' Patton screws up his face in concentration. A car accident...there's been a car accident. He is in the car. He is stuck. The taxi driver seems fairly unharmed, though he is hardly in a position to be assessing his own injuries let alone anyone else's. But the fact that he was able to climb out means that the back of the cab must be more damaged than the front, because Patton is very much trapped where he is. He can feel all his limbs though, so this is a good sign, he thinks. He cannot be too badly stuck.

But he is still forgetting something. He wishes he knew what, because he knows it is very, very important – the most important thing he could possibly think of, the most important thing in the world, and he has forgotten it.

'Where is home?' Asks Eduardo, clearly casting around for conversation topics to keep Patton conscious; Patton thinks for a moment. Another important thing he can't quite seem to bring to mind. He doesn't think he is that badly hurt, but he knows he must have hit his head. How long ago was the ambulance called?

It takes him much too long to answer.

'Burke Avenue,' he says eventually, finding it a struggle to force the syllables out in the right order; the words seem to be getting muddled on the path between his brain and his mouth, and he has to speak slowly to give the sounds time to come out properly, '221b'

There. Again. That spark of something he should definitely remember.

'You have family?' The man is still trying to get him to talk. Patton doesn't want to, he is tired, and it hurts to talk, but he knows he should, he knows he has to. He forces the medical side of his brain to take stock of where and how it hurts, the soldier side to grit his teeth and bear it as best he can, and the civilian side to answer obediently and wait for an ambulance, if only to make the driver, who looks terrified, feel better himself.

And still there is something he is missing, something vital.

'Sister,' says Patton , 'don't see her much. Don't get on,' and something else, something he needs to think of...

'Ah, that is too bad,' Eduardo sounds apologetic, and shakes his head, pauses. Patton starts to turn again, but his gaze is drawn back to Eduardo when he begins to speak, very quickly, as though distracting him. 'I have wife and two children. They are very beautiful.' He looks proud. Patton forces a smile.

'Was there anyone else...hurt?' Patton asks, 'the other car – is anyone –?'

Eduardo shakes his head.

'Only one man in other car. He run off hurt but not very bad. Probably drinking, probably not see, not know what has happened. It is very slippery.'

'So no one else was injured?' So close to the important thing, so close...Eduardo looks very uncomfortable.

'You not think about others, Mr Patton,' he says, 'you think about staying awake, you think about yourself, okay? Others worry. You concentrate on you.'

'Was – anyone else – injured?' Patton repeats with gritted teeth, angry now. The driver is keeping something from him. He hisses with pain as he tries to shift position.

'No stress yourself Mr Patton, look at me and talk and we wait for ambulance to arrive. You hear it now?' Patton hears it, and disregards it. He should turn around. He should turn and look, now, there is nothing stopping him, except the chilling fear that is creeping up his spine. He doesn't want to see. He knows, with the instincts that lay almost dormant after childhood, those feelings that tell you that you know something is wrong, you know that the room is not safe in the dark – with that same, cold, dread, he knows that he does not want to see what is on the other side of him.

'Why don't you want me to look around?' He demands, in as commanding a voice as he can manage, though it is weakened by the fear he hasn't the energy to cover up.

'Nothing, nothing – you concentrate on me though, yes – no, no look, not stress yourself –!'

Patton cannot stand it any longer. Swallowing a fear which is threatening to make him sick, he ignores Eduardo's protests, and he turns his head.

He wishes he hadn't. He desperately, desperately, wishes that he had not looked, because he will never, ever be able to forget that image. Never be able to get it out of his head and he will never, not for the rest of his life, he will never be able to forget this terrible, unbearable crushing feeling in his chest. His lungs collapse and his heart decides to stop beating. There's a rushing sound in his ears as his vision tunnels and the only thing in the world is what he sees in front of him. It is the only thing that has ever been and the only thing that ever will be, because nothing else even exists, and certainly nothing else matters.

He knows why Eduardo tried to stop him seeing this.

He knows what the important thing is now.

The important thing is Logan.

And Logan is...

His whole body is twisted at an odd angle, the side of the taxi has caved in and is trapping him far more thoroughly than Patton, who finds himself scrambling to move now, ignoring pain and ignoring Eduardo's calls. He tugs his legs from the wreckage around his feet desperately, reaching out for Logan – Logan is bleeding and unconscious, he is deathly pale and he is being crushed – the other car hit exactly where he is sitting. There is blood trickling from below his hairline, blood seeping from old wounds, blood on his abdomen, there is blood.

'Mr Patton –'

'Logan – Logan!' Patton manages to pull himself free and moves awkwardly across, making no attempt to climb for the opening at the front of the car; the only thing he cares about is Logan.

Whose hand is cold. Icy cold.

'No, no no no no no, Logan – Logan! Logan wake up, come on, wake up – talk to me Logan , please, please –' his fingers are trembling, his whole body is trembling, and this makes it impossible to search for a pulse so he lays a hand tentatively on Logan 's chest and feels the tiniest, most wonderful movement in the world as the detective takes a barely perceptible breath. He moves his hands so they are cupping Logan 's face and turns it, ever so gently, towards himself. Patton 's eyes are wet. He does not care.

'Logan – Logan , come on, come on, wake up. You're not even badly hurt. Wake up, Logan ! You're fine. You're fine. Stop it. Stop it now, Logan , wake up. You have to wake up.' He chokes on the words, fighting furiously with the urge to shake the detective back to consciousness because he has to wake up, he has to –

His eyelids flicker minutely.

'Logan ?'

'Patton ...' It is the quietest Patton has ever heard Logan speak, it is the most painful thing he has ever heard him say, and it is the most beautiful sound in the universe.

'Thank God, Logan –' Patton could pass out from relief, shivering even though he doesn't feel cold, '– come on, wake up properly now. Stay awake, stay with me...' he is still cupping Logan 's face in his hands, rubbing lines down the taller man's cheeks, as much to sooth himself as Logan .

Logan opens his eyes blearily, finding it an exhausting effort just to raise his eyelids. He lets his head rest in Patton 's hands, too tired to keep it up himself, and through blurred vision manages to make out Patton 's drawn, terrified face. Injured – Patton must be injured –

'Are you...alright?'

Patton could laugh, he really could. Of all the times Logan could decide to prioritise someone else's well being over his own, he has to choose now.

'I'm fine,' he chokes. He cannot say anything else; the words won't seem to come.

'Good...' a long pause, while Logan almost frowns but finds it too difficult. Patton looks awful, pale, strained and...something Logan cannot identify. But if he is not hurt, what could the cause be? He realises slowly as he watches Patton 's searching eyes, and if he could spare the energy, he would wonder what the strange feeling he has at the revelation is. Patton is concerned for him. 'Am I...alright?'

'Yeah,' Patton lies, 'of course. Just another knock on the head, that's all. We'll get you out of here in no time; you'll be on your feet before you know it.'

'You're a bad liar Patton ,' he coughs. It's painful. Patton winces.

'I'm not lying.'

'Thank you,' Logan breathes, eyelids drooping. He's trying to keep them open, really he is, but it's so hard...and isn't Patton always telling him he ought to sleep more? But he says to stay awake now...he can't, he just can't. He's never felt this fatigued, this bone-weary before, and he knows this is a bad sign; he doesn't need Patton 's expression to tell him that. Oddly, though, he doesn't feel anything more than a dull background ache of his injuries...nothing more than sore muscles after a chase, and Patton is overreacting again, as usual...yes, that's it...

Patton forces himself not to think about how cold Logan 's skin is, banishing the doctor's voice in his mind because he refuses to listen to its prognosis, as he tries to inject some confidence into his voice.

'Don't think you'll be able to refuse the blanket this time,' he says. Logan closes his eyes.

'No – Logan ! Don't do that, you know you're not supposed to do that. Just like before, okay? It's nothing serious, but you need to stay awake.' Strange, how he himself was so exhausted only minutes ago and now, he knows, he could not sleep if he was drugged. He has never been so afraid, not even in Afghanistan, because if he is bad at lying to Logan he is even worse at lying to himself and Logan is not alright. His breathing is short, shallow and ragged, his words are quiet and hoarse, and when Patton moves his hand down to the patch of blood on Logan 's abdomen, he is sure he feels glass but daren't look even as the liquid seeps through his fingers. His hand comes away red, and he presses it back again, ignoring Logan 's sharp intake of breath.

Logan 's arm is not supposed to be bent that way. He has blood in his mouth. Patton 's heart feels like it has been placed in a clamp.

'I don't think...my legs – Patton ,'

'Can you feel them?' Asks Patton , panicked. He can hear the sirens now, much closer. Please, please hurry...

'No.'

'Try and move them,' he says automatically, knowing it is inadvisable, that he should be telling Logan to stay completely still in case of spinal injuries, but he says it anyway. His brain just isn't working enough to think straight – Logan obeys, and immediately cries out in pain.

'Can...feel them...now...' he gasps once he has stopped trying to move them, 'it...hurts.'

And the tears on Logan 's face frighten Patton more than anything he has seen so far. Patton sees blue lights out of the corner of his eye and moves to look, taking his hands away from Logan momentarily, praying, praying they are here...

'Patton ? Patton ! Where – where are...'

'I'm here,' he quickly grabs Logan 's hand and squeezes it. Logan grips back as firmly as he can, but his hold is weak; Patton tries not to think about it, keeping one hand on the wound on Logan 's abdomen, but the bleeding won't stop. Logan ' eyes are slipping shut again.

'I can't...breathe...' he mumbles, his chest heaving without drawing in enough air, he is trying, he's fighting it as hard as he can if only because he doesn't like hearing Patton sound so afraid, and because he knows that he should be trying to stay conscious, but it is difficult…it is so, so difficult...Patton 's face is growing more blurry, his voice is more distant...

'It's okay, Logan , you're just a bit stuck, your chest is a little squashed, you'll be fine. Just breathe slowly, that's it, concentrate...'

'Can't concentrate...can't think...'

'Logan – Logan !' But he has fallen unconscious again – and Patton 's heart stops at the same time as Logan 's breathing. 'No, Logan , no! Breathe, for God's sake, Logan , breathe!' He reaches out a shaking hand to check Logan 's pulse and there isn't one. There are definitely emergency services here now but they can't reach them, so Patton starts chest compressions as best he can in his position, barely thinking, frantically and desperately breathing for Logan until the lungs under his hands shudder into life again, until his heart stumbles back to a normal rhythm. Patton lets out something between a sob and a cry of relief. He kisses Logan 's forehead, brushing dark strangs from the detective's face, muttering words of comfort he knows that Logan can't hear, but he won't stop, he won't leave space for that awful voice of realism in the back of his mind. He won't listen to it.

'You'll be okay, Logan , you'll be fine. The ambulance is here now, they'll get us out, it won't be long, you'll be fine, you'll be fine...fine...'

Later – Patton forgets the exact amount of time, loses track – he is in the back of an ambulance with Logan . He refused to climb out of the car until they had got Logan out and insisted on travelling with him. He tugs the shock blanket they have given him further around himself with a mixture of revulsion and amusement – mostly simply a need for the paltry comfort it offers. The blanket reminds him of Logan , not in shock. It makes him think of what might have happened if he had not turned up on time at the scene, if he had missed the taxi driver and Logan had taken that damn pill, or worse, if he had not hit the driver, if instead the bullet had hit –

It makes him think of near misses and Logan 's indignant face. It makes him think of dawning realisation in Logan 's eyes and reminds him of Chinese food and door handles, of fortune cookies and the decision he made a long time before he ever voiced it.

And maybe, after all, he does need it. His teeth are chattering but he barely notices, ignoring the sting as one paramedic treats the minor cuts he has gained. This is not fair. He has not even broken a bone; his worst injury is the throbbing lump on the side of his head, the taxi driver has a dislocated shoulder but little else, and Logan ...Logan is – Logan could – but no. He won't think that, he won't listen to that voice even when the whole ambulance is devoid of oxygen because Logan 's heart has stopped, and the air does not come back until it has started again. It is worse the second time, and Patton doesn't realise he is shouting out until the paramedic lays a hand on his arm and tries to calm him, but he won't listen, he can't, and don't they see?

When Patton collapses into a chair in the waiting room of the hospital, his body feels as though it, as well as Logan 's, has been subjected to the electric shocks in an attempt to bring life back to it. It doesn't seem to have worked on him though.

Logan. Logan. Logan.

It isn't even a real thought which chases itself around Patton 's head in time with the ticking clock, just a name and a face, sometimes a voice, a tired, hoarse, broken voice...

Logan. Logan. Logan.

He is in surgery. Patton doesn't know how long for. He has stopped watching the clock – or rather, stopped registering the movement of its hands. He glances at the plastic face several times a minute, but he never really notices what the time is, or how much has passed; only that the hands don't actually seem to move, and then suddenly they move much too quickly, time sliding past in uneven chunks without any sort of pattern.

The coffee in his hands is cold now – it's not even how he likes his coffee, but he only realised that after he had made it and he hasn't the energy to tip it away. He made it by accident. Black, two sugars – just how Logan drinks it.

His hands are shaking. He watches them, between the looks towards the clock. He cannot make them stay still.

Logan. Logan. Logan .

They are clean now. His hands. He didn't do it – a paramedic must have wiped the blood away for him, but he wasn't paying attention. He can still see it, still feel it. Warm. Red. A much too familiar sight...drying on his skin, blood that isn't his, seeping from wounds he cannot heal – there have been too many of those, he decides, far too many.

Any good?

Very good.

Yes. He told Logan that, and it was – is – true. But not good enough, not good enough to save them all, not good enough to stop all the bleeding or cure all the disease, not good enough to pull himself together and do something more useful than babble nonsense words of pointless comfort...

Logan.

There is no false hope for a doctor to cling to, no comfort in ignorance. He cannot pretend not to understand.

'I sit here?' Patton looks up listlessly. The taxi driver gestures to the chair beside him; Patton nods tightly, not trusting his voice to work properly. 'I am sorry,' Eduardo says mournfully, 'about your friend.'

'Don't –' Patton begins, but his throat closes and he has to swallow the lump there before he can make another coherent sound. It can't be that long ago that he and Logan were sat in Angelo's restaurant... 'he'll be fine. It wasn't your fault.' Eduardo nods with grim understanding on his face,

'I pray for you, and for your friend,' he tells Patton , who closes his eyes and grips his coffee cup to stop his hands shaking. 'I pray to heal him. I am sorry.'

Another silent nod, and Eduardo, true to his word, leans forwards with his elbows on his knees and his eyes closed, murmuring words in Spanish which Patton does not understand but which are oddly soothing. He finds himself listening just to take him away from his own thoughts, concentrating on the sound of the words more than trying to interpret their meaning.

And so they sit, and wait; Eduardo prays, Patton listens and tries to ignore the empty feeling which threatens to engulf him.

Logan . Logan . Logan .


	4. No time at all.

Eduardo has long fallen silent but he hasn't moved from his position beside Patton, which is both comforting and disconcerting. Patton is not thinking now, not of anything. He listens to the sound of his own breath and stares at the ground with his hands clasped in front of him – he doesn't know where the coffee has got to – his mind is blank and empty, as though he has exhausted himself beyond the capacity for coherent thought.

He doesn't really see the floor even though he is barely blinking. He doesn't really smell the antiseptic of the hospital even though he is breathing deliberately slowly and deeply. He doesn't really hear the sounds of bleeping and ringing and talking around him even though they are the only things tethering him to consciousness. He just doesn't feel.

Were he capable, he would probably diagnose himself as being in shock, but the fact is that he has purposefully cut his senses off from his surroundings. It's less painful that way, to be apart from them, separate himself from the world and the news he is dreading.

Then all of a sudden – a sound he barely registers, perhaps a sight, a smell – something reminds him of what has happened and why he is here. He feels sick, bile rising in his throat and he just wants to run. He wants to shout, he wants to wake up and find himself – find himself still on the sofa with Logan, to never have to move from that spot. Or in the kitchen, looking at the text from Sandy and ignoring it, somehow convincing Logan to ignore Chief. Or at Angelo's, staying just a few minutes longer. Catching another taxi, anything, anything different, anything not this, anything that could mean that Logan is not...perhaps if he had got into the other side. If he had sat where Logan had chosen and Logan had taken his place, then Logan would be fine...

He feels a hand on his arm and looks up into Eduardo's concerned face, startled. He doesn't think he gave any outward sign of distress.

'Your hands,' Eduardo explains kindly; when Patton looks, he sees that he is gripping them together so tightly they are turning white, and relaxes them. 'You should not worry, I am sure your friend be okay.'

Patton closes his eyes against the wetness he feels rising in them and nods. Eduardo takes his hand away, but does not stop watching Patton ,

'You care about him very much,' he says. Patton can't bring himself to reply, knowing that if he speaks he will lose the battle he is having with the lump in his throat.

It might be minutes or hours later that another, unfamiliar voice calls, 'Mr Patton?' and Patton looks up to see a plump, grey haired woman approaching. He stands automatically and feels inexplicably grateful when Eduardo does the same, though the taxi driver makes sure he is placed slightly behind Patton .

'My name is Doctor Fircroft,' the doctor begins gently,

'Logan –?' is all Patton can manage to say.

'Mr Logan is out of surgery,' Patton instantly sags with relief, then tenses as he recognises the tone of the doctor's voice, 'and is stable for the moment, but we really can't tell much more until he wakes up.'

'And when will that be?' Don't answer, don't answer, don't answer...

'Your friend lost a lot of blood –'

'When?' Patton already knows what the reply will be. Part of him needs to hear it out loud. Part of him dreads it.

'– and given that his heart stopped more than once just in the ambulance on the way here...'

'You don't know,' Patton finishes. The doctor shakes her head. Patton clenches and unclenches his fist, breathing hard through his nose.

'We have high hopes,' – no, you don't; I'm a doctor, you can't fool me – 'you may well have saved his life, Mr Patton.'

'I didn't do anything,' Patton says listlessly, 'I just...'

'You slowed the bleeding to some extent before the paramedics were able to reach him, and you kept him fighting. That matters, Mr Patton.'

No, it doesn't, because it wasn't good enough, was it?

'Can I see him?' he asks. She hesitates before she replies, considering. Patton knows it should only be family – but he is not going to be kept away.

'Yes,' she says eventually, and then adds sternly, 'but only one person.' She eyes Eduardo, who bows his head respectfully to Patton,

'You tell me how he is after. I hope he is well soon.' Patton gives another silent nod before he follows the doctor away, terrified of what he will see.

'Patton!'

The shout will do no good but it's automatic, torn from Logan's lips before he has time to think about it. He's seen the car and he knows for a moment what is going to happen but is helpless to stop it. It's the longest moment of his life, and yet he doesn't have time to do anything more than call Patton 's name as he hears, louder even than his desperate shout, drowning out everything else, a deafening crunch and a squeal. He is spinning, moving so fast, and all the breath has been knocked out him, wrenched around, pulled and twisted with the out-of-control movement of the car –

He doesn't know what happens after that until he feels someone's hands on his face. He feels them lifting it towards them, but he can't open his eyes. He feels too heavy to move. He hears Patton 's voice – he sounds afraid – and forces himself to look. He doesn't like how weak his own voice sounds, not like himself, not strong and authoritative and certain. He can tell by Patton 's face there are worse injuries than the doctor is letting on, and can't seem to keep himself awake despite Patton 's protests...he's freezing, and this can't be good...

He can't feel his legs until he tries to move them, and then he almost passes out from the pain. It takes every bit of energy he can summon, every ounce of willpower to keep listening to Patton 's voice, letting it tether him to consciousness...Patton is okay and he is here, and he's a doctor, so Logan will be okay...childish logic, but it will do for now. He hasn't the brainpower to think anything more taxing. He can't see properly, his vision is blurry so he concentrates on his other senses...smell. He can smell something metallic...no, this can't be good either...

He can hear Patton, which is good, so he lets the sound fill his brain, the only thing keeping him awake. He can feel Patton 's hand pressing on his abdomen. It's painful...he assumes that is where most of the blood is coming from, though he can see something dark dripping in front of his eyes and thinks that might be, too. One hand is still on his face, absently rubbing the skin in a way which is almost comforting, but the feeling is swamped by his injuries...

Then both sensations go away and he can't see Patton, and his legs hurt and his abdomen hurts and his head hurts, and he can't hear Patton either; he has gone quiet. Suddenly Logan is colder and he shouts out. It doesn't matter that he sounds ridiculous and child-like, he needs to know where Patton is or he can't stay awake…he needs to know that Patton is okay, so he will be okay. Patton will make sure of that …he trusts Patton ...

Patton 's hand is back in his and he tries to grip it tightly to reassure himself that it's there, but his muscles aren't really working properly and he can't...he can't breathe either. He struggles to draw in enough oxygen to keep himself awake. His chest feels like it's being crushed...just a little squashed Patton says, and Logan tries to believe him...Patton tells him to concentrate, but how can he concentrate when he cannot think?

His vision fades, and he dithers on the edge of awareness...time seems to be passing strangely...Patton is talking to him, murmuring something he can't hear, only enough to register that he recognises the voice. Then he is jolting, moving somewhere. Nothing for a while, and then Patton 's desperate shouts...what could he be shouting at? Logan tries opening his eyes but there is a fog in his mind now and he can't bring himself to wake up...

Patton stops at the entrance to Logan's room and for a moment can't make himself move any further in. He's seen things like this before, seen worse than this so many times.

But this is Logan. This is different. Because Logan just...it's an impossible notion, for Logan to be like this. It's not an image Patton thinks anyone could imagine if they had not seen if for themselves. He's having a hard enough time believing it when the sight is right in front of him.

Just hours ago – just a few hours, they were at home, they laughed...less than a day since they were racing through the streets together, since everything was normal...

You don't know.

They don't, and he doesn't; it makes Patton want to scream, because somebody should know if – when – Logan is going to wake up. They just should, there shouldn't be such uncertainty. Patton has worked with uncertainty before though. He has worked under pressure and confusion few people can think of let alone experience; so why is he now so angry that he can't be told more, that there isn't anything more to tell?

The doctor leaves Patton alone eventually, muttering something sympathetic on her way out and patting his arm, but it gives him no comfort. He stays where he is, in the doorway, staring, until his vision shifts and swims and the room looks much bigger. Much emptier, with Logan alone in the middle of it; Logan alone, with him standing here watching uselessly. Silently berating himself for his inaction Patton steps forwards and sits in the chair beside the bed, reaching out for Logan's hand as he does.

He doesn't move for three hours.

'I can't...breathe...' Logan forces the words out and Patton fights panic, trying to comfort Logan. Trying to tell him it will be alright, he knows it will; it has to be – because if Logan isn't – if Logan doesn't – it just can't happen, it can't. Patton 's seen him walk away from far too much to let himself believe he won't simply shake this off, too.

'It's okay, Logan, you're just a bit stuck, your chest is a little squashed, you'll be fine. Just breathe slowly, that's it, concentrate...'

'Can't concentrate...can't think...'

'Logan – Logan!' His eyes slip shut again, his chest stops moving, but Patton will not let himself believe it, he will not, he will not. It can't be happening, he won't let it happen. But no matter how many times he breathes for Logan, no matter how much he tries amid his calls, his desperate efforts and tears, Logan is not waking up. He is not breathing – Logan has no pulse – 'Logan!' he shouts again, and someone is pulling him back. Someone is tugging him away and telling him to stop it but he won't, he won't, Logan will be fine, 'Logan!'

'Patton –' someone pulls on his arm urgently – he wrenches it away,

'Logan!'

'Patton – Patton !'

'Patton !'

He wakes with a start and looks wildly around, his gaze skipping over the concerned face looming in front of him and coming to rest on Logan, whom he watches until his own breathing returns to normal. Logan's chest is still rising and falling steadily, albeit with the help of a machine. The heart monitor is still beeping. Breathe, Patton .

Only when he has satisfied himself that Logan is definitely, definitely still alive, does he look back towards Sandy.

'Are you okay?' she asks; he glares at her in answer, feeling irrationally angry with her presence, but she doesn't back away. 'Sorry,' she says, 'I only meant – you weren't hurt, were you?'

'Not really,' Patton replies. It's easier than explaining how much he wishes he could change places with Logan. Easier than describing the shock that won't even let him process it, like missing his footing on the stairs, times a million...like the world has dropped away beneath him. How can he have gone, so quickly, from having everything, everything he has wanted for so long, to having it all ripped away from underneath him? How can he so suddenly be so unbalanced and lost – feeling as though he has tripped and is still falling, is yet to reach the ground – and is there even a ground to reach?

'How did you –?' he begins quietly,

'I saw it on the news,' she says, 'I had to come and make sure you were...' she trails away. Patton shakes his head, not sure what to think, or why her being here irritates him so much.

'I'm sure he'll be fine,' she tells him kindly,

'Yeah,' Patton un-sticks his throat with difficulty; the trouble is, if any of the people telling him this actually believed it, they wouldn't feel the need to reassure him of the fact. And he wouldn't feel the need to hear it.

'Is there anything –?'

'Not really.'

Part of him even blames her. If not for her he wouldn't be here; he wouldn't have left the flat. They wouldn't have gone to Angelo's if she hadn't texted and they wouldn't have caught the taxi. He would have gone with Logan to Chief and then they would be on the chase again and it would be normal.

He forces these thoughts away with difficulty, but can't help the resentful glare that flickers across his face.

'Are you sure you're – you were...well, you were talking and –'

'Bad dream,' Patton informs her shortly, 'I'll – don't worry.'

'Patton ...'

'Don't.' She looks as though she might open her mouth to speak again, before another voice cuts across from the doorway; a voice Patton definitely doesn't want to hear.

'Really, don't,' it says, 'it's safer for all of us if you don't piss him off.' Sandy looks round, startled, and Patton sighs without so much as glancing towards the new arrival.

'Harry, go away,' he instructs her tiredly without looking. Harry makes a sound between amusement and derision, standing resolutely where she is until Sandy squeezes Patton 's shoulder, makes him promise to call if he needs anything, and murmurs look after him to his sister on the way out. Patton cannot decide who he would least like to have a conversation with right now; his ex-girlfriend or his sister, but it seems the choice is not his to make.

'Patton,' his name, again – why do they insist on saying it so much? Do they think it will help somehow? He forces himself to look up, at long last, and is surprised by what he sees; something that would almost cause a pleasant jolt in his stomach if not for his all-encompassing fear for Logan.

Harry looks...healthy. Almost. For her, at least...her hair, usually quite limp and unkempt of late, is tied haphazardly back into a ponytail, her face is pinched and drawn, but her eyes seem bright, her pupils normal. She isn't swaying on the spot or slurring her speech, which is a bonus, and she looks deadly serious, which is terrifying.

'I've been sober for over three weeks,' she tells him firmly, knowing only too well the thoughts that are running through his head, 'you'd know that if you picked up the phone every once in a while.'

'Sorry,' he says mechanically, 'that's good...really good, Harry.' He's sincere as he says it, but he doesn't think it comes through in his voice. He just sounds worn out.

'Yeah, well,' she steps further into the room, hands thrust deep into the pockets of her jeans, 'guess I'm just sick of fucking everything up.'

'You don't –'

'Oh, leave it, Patton , I know what you think of me,' she shrugs, and Patton finds himself grateful for the fact that she hasn't mentioned Logan yet, because this feels almost ordinary. 'Don't worry about it. I'm fixing things. Or trying to anyway. But I'll do it my own way,' she finishes stubbornly. Patton nods his agreement, proud and pleased under the exhausting worry, giving her a tight smile.

'I'm glad.'

'And I'm not here to talk about me,'

'Harry, just –'

'Your girlfriend called me. She told me she thought I ought to come and make sure you were okay. So here I am. And I'm not going to ask, I already know the answer, but I'm staying anyway.' She's perched on the edge of the bed now, regarding Patton with eyes almost the exact same shade as his, set in a sharper, older face which otherwise barely resembles his own.

'She's not my girlfriend,' Patton mutters. Harry raises an eyebrow and her lip twitches as she glances towards Logan, but then she is serious again and she slides off the bed. She paces for a moment before replying.

'Were you hurt?' She phrases the question carefully, Patton notices, not asking him if he's alright or okay, which he appreciates. He shrugs.

'Not really,' he stands too, because he can't sit any longer, he can't be doing nothing. The bleeping of the heart monitor fills his ears – it's only been a few hours, he tells himself, not long at all given the injuries...Logan will be awake in no time, no time at all. But he saw the blood; he saw how much Logan lost...and what about the internal injuries? His heart stopped...what if his brain was oxygen deprived? What damage might that have done...?

'He'll be –'

'I really wish people would stop saying that,' Patton growls dangerously; Harry is unperturbed, and takes a step towards him.

'They're trying to help.'

'It's not working,' his voice cracks on the words. He squeezes his eyes shut and deliberately turns away from Harry, who is still regarding him steadily.

'It's only been...'

'I know, okay?' He whirls back around – he doesn't know why he's so upset, he wouldn't expect Logan to be awake yet, but the fact is that he isn't. Patton can still feel the blood, still smell it, he can still see the paramedics furiously trying to restart Logan's heart.

'Oh, Patton ...' Harry's voice is suddenly gentle and she moves to wrap her arms around him, but Patton backs away,

'No – don't do that, Harry. Don't.'

'Why?' she asks. Patton would prefer they argue over her drinking again. He doesn't want to answer.

'Because...' he says. It's stupid, it's so stupid he can't believe he's letting himself buy into it, but it's true, he can't help it. 'Because last time you hugged me was because our parents were dead,' and now his voice is definitely not steady, but he's holding it as best he can, forcing the words out shakily. 'If you hug me now – if you – then it means that you think –' he doesn't like that his voice is that much higher pitched than normal, doesn't like the effort it is taking to speak. 'It means you think that Logan is going to...that he won't – it means –'

But then her arms are around him anyway, and he's gripping the back of her jacket tightly in his fists, gritting his teeth and fighting the tears because he knows they are stupid, but they come anyway. Harry rubs his back soothingly while he takes shuddering breaths to calm himself, ignoring the fact that the shoulder of her jacket is now damp.

'No, it doesn't,' she whispers. 'It means I'm trying to make my little brother feel better, because he's just been in a car accident, he's in shock, and he's scared. It'll be fine, Patton , I promise, it'll be fine...he'll be awake by tomorrow morning, you'll see. Remember all those things you write about on your blog? He's a stubborn bastard; he'll get bored of being in here in no time...'

No time is apparently longer than five days though, because that's how long has passed. Patton has, when forced to leave the hospital, very reluctantly stayed at Harry's. He doesn't think he can stand to go back to the flat, but he has spent as much time as possible beside Logan's bed.

Still time, he tells himself, there's still plenty of time. Five days isn't very long, not for someone with Logan's injuries, it's not very long at all...Harry is right, which he would never normally admit. Logan will be bored of something so dull as being unconscious very soon, and will be his usual insufferable self...he will be fine...how he is coming to hate that word...

No time at all.

And no time at all is longer than two weeks, but Patton keeps assuring himself that this is still not as bad as it could be. At least Logan is in a stable condition, and he will be awake before they know it. The normal rules just don't apply to Logan. This won't even slow him down. He'll just open his eyes and...he just will. Who cares that it isn't medically that simple? What does he give a damn about Glasgow Coma Scales or brain damage or any of the other million things that argue against it being true? It doesn't matter that the chances dwindle every day or that Patton knows the statistics by heart, because this. Is. Logan.

Logan's brother does not visit often, but he is solemn and quiet when he does. Patton mostly avoids talking to him, but of all Logan's guests he turns out to be the one Patton dreads the least. Patton smiles weakly, and promptly bursts into a fresh wave of tears, when he thinks what Logan would say to this information.

Roman visits twice, leaving flowers and a small stuffed teddy bear which produces a similarly confused reaction when Patton imagines Logan's response.

Sandy doesn't come again after the third time. Patton knows she visits more for his sake than Logan's, but he still can't really talk to her; all of their conversations are awkward and stilted. There are a dozen things she is too tactful to say and an equal number Patton 's conscience quickly stifles when they surface. Gradually she just stops trying, and despite the guilty pain in his chest, Patton finds he doesn't really care about losing her company. Part of him is even glad.

Chief pops his head in at least as often as Logan's brother. Even Eduardo checks in from time to time, always frantically apologetic and nervous. Patton tells him over and over that it is not his fault, knowing all the while that it is he, Patton, who is to blame. He hasn't even got the heart to hold Sandy responsible after the second week passes.

It's when Mrs Higgins comes that Patton finds it hardest. She doesn't know what to do or say, and fusses around plumping Logan's pillows and trying to get Patton to eat, which he knows he should. He feels guilty for making her worry even more, but he can't make himself keep the food down. She asks him to come back to the flat.

On the sixteenth day, Patton accepts.

'I'll get you some tea,' Mrs Higgins says, hurrying inside before Patton does. He wonders vaguely if this is just because his company has become so difficult that she doesn't want to be around him.

Logan should be awake by now, Logan should be here. He's numb as he walks up the stairs, numb as he opens the door, and numb as he looks at the room beyond. He's numb until he sees the first aid kit still sprawled on the floor, when the weight of it seems to hit him at last and he almost literally reels with it. He can't breathe, he can't see – this isn't right, their flat is empty and it isn't right. He hates that first aid kit now. He hates it because it should be enough. It should be all that Logan needs. Patton should be able to do something to save him – but no, don't think that, he doesn't need saving, he only needs saving if he's going to –

No. This just – Logan will wake up, Logan has to wake up because Patton can't do this. It burns not seeing Logan curled on the sofa with his violin, it aches not being told he is an idiot, it stings to go to the kitchen and know exactly what he will find there; it hurts.

Without thinking, Patton aims a kick towards the first aid box and it flies across the room. He pushes a stack of papers to the floor, not knowing what they are. He throws the glass that was sat on the table and hears it shatter against the wall –

He comes to his senses as he watches the shards clatter to the floor, glittering sharply. He stands, shaking and ashamed, for a long time before he goes to pick it up. His trembling fingers slip on the pieces so that one slices deep into his hand but he ignores the pain and tries to gather the others up. He can't feel it, not really, doesn't even notice until Mrs Higgins's hand closes around his wrist – he didn't hear her enter – and she pulls him gently to his feet.

'Now, that's not helping is it?' she says, sounding very much like his mother. Patton doesn't reply, and she shakes her head as she gathers plasters and antiseptic. She leaves him sitting in the red chair on his own as she, much more carefully, clears up the mess he has made. He picks absently at the plasters, staring at the empty grey chair opposite.

Sixteen days since he's last been here. It's wrong that nothing has changed. Everything is exactly where he and Logan left it, and it shouldn't be. He doesn't want to be here, he doesn't want to see it; he doesn't want that empty chair staring at him. Logan should be sat in that chair, or leaning over an experiment in the kitchen or scraping noisily at his violin, shooting holes in the wall, or typing away on his laptop or something.

It echoes without him. The room echoes. Patton 's own thoughts echo.

He sleeps on Mrs Higgins's sofa for the night, because he cannot stand it in here alone.


	5. He will.

Logan is vaguely aware that something is wrong, but he isn't quite sure what.

He's on his own, he knows that – and it's dark. Or at least...foggy. He feels like he is underwater. All his senses are muffled and he can't figure out where he is or how he got here, or how to get out. Patton should be here and he tries to call out, but finds his voice isn't working and neither are his limbs. Everything feels heavy.

His concentration drifts for a long time. Or maybe a short time, he can't be certain. He thinks of nothing; an entirely new experience to him and not one he wants to repeat. He listens to the distant, unidentifiable sounds like waves, letting them guide his wandering mind until he comes back, and realises again the presence of something strange.

He must have hit his head, he decides. He can't really think when, but he doesn't think there can be another explanation for this situation. Patton ought to be here; he ought to be doing something about it. But maybe Patton is hurt too – for a moment he sees an image of Patton's face; he looks afraid. What could Patton have to be afraid of? Logan tries to speak again, but he still can't make a sound.

Logan runs around the corner too quickly, his arms windmill through the air and his feet slide from beneath him as he falls sideways –

He fell. He remembers falling on the ice – and the murderer, the murderer got away. Chief followed and Patton stayed...stupid Chief , he probably let the culprit escape...and Patton insisted they return to Baker Street. But that injury wasn't this bad, surely?

Patton is resting his forehead against Logan 's and Logan is smiling...Patton's hand on his face hurts and the doctor moves away quickly, apologising, but Logan doesn't want him to move...then Patton is smiling too, he kisses Logan again, tells him to shut up...

No. Definitely not that bad.

'Patton!' Noise and movement and pain – opening his eyes slowly, seeing Patton –

A car, he remembers a car – how long ago was that? He can't tell. Patton was awake then, though, Patton must be okay...so why isn't he?

'Thank God, Logan – come on, wake up properly now. Stay awake, stay with me...'

But he is tired...

'No – Logan ! Don't do that, you know you're not supposed to do that. Just like before, okay? It's nothing serious, but you need to stay awake.'

Did he fall asleep? He must have...Patton told him not to. This must be why. He wants to move, it's very dull just being in here, in nothingness. But no matter how hard he tries he can't make himself speak, he can't do anything…

\-----------------

Patton moves a stray piece of hair from where it has found itself over Logan 's left eye before he sits down. His fingers ghost gently across Logan 's forehead, lingering against his skin moments longer than necessary.

It is thirty two days exactly since the accident. Every time someone dares mention the word coma, Patton either pointedly ignores them or leaves the room, much the same as when anyone dares bring up brain damage. Harry has more than once tried to tell him he's in denial; he has more than once told her, quite colourfully, to drop it. He doesn't care what they say. They don't know. They don't know Logan, not like he does.

'That lead didn't go anywhere,' Patton announces without preamble. Logan cannot hear him and there is no one else in the room, but talking is better than just sitting. Maybe Logan is aware of his presence on some level. Even if the only result of this is that he is so terminally bored by what Patton has to say that he will wake up purely so he no longer has to listen. At least he would be awake. Talking helps, it makes Patton feel as though he's here for a reason, not just to stare at Logan 's unmoving form and battle with the paralysing fear of Harry being right. Sometimes he even imagines Logan reacts – a flickering eyelid or a twitching finger – but when he looks again, there's nothing there.

'Epps is still on the run. Chief was convinced we had him this time...' Epps is the killer Logan was chasing before his fall on the ice. Patton frowns with uneasiness at his statement – there have been no more murders, but he knows it is probably only a matter of time...they cannot deny they need Logan. Patton takes a deep breath, trying to convince himself it isn't shaky.

'But we caught the burglar – I was right after all...you'd probably have figured it out in about half the time. Actually no, you probably wouldn't even have taken the case, but...' but Patton doesn't want to be doing nothing and Chief, most likely only to humour him or in some attempt to protect him from himself, has requested Patton's presence at crime scenes several times over the last month. Much to the dismay of the rest of the police squad, 'That bloke you don't like, wasn't happy – you should have seen his face...complaining about amateurs...I almost hit him. Don't worry, if I do, I'll make sure you're there to watch. And speaking of watching, I haven't forgotten the film deal. As soon as we're back at the flat, okay? And you're still not allowed to guess the ending.'

He rambles on pointlessly, aimlessly. His voice trails off and picks up again at entirely unrelated topics, just so he can continue an almost unbroken stream of nonsense sound to keep himself from going mad with the silence. There's never silence around Logan, and there never should be. Even when he demands that no one speak or move or breathe, because he's thinking. Around Logan there is always noise. His thoughts alone are loud enough to deafen innocent bystanders; his sheer intensity as he focuses, stares at some piece of evidence, a clue everyone else has overlooked, a fiery brilliance that leaves no room for quiet. Quiet is boring, so Logan banishes it just by being there.

'I'm going to back to our flat later,' Patton announces, making the decision suddenly and immediately regretting it. He hasn't been back to their flat since he smashed the glass and ended up sleeping on Mrs Higgins sofa – Harry has picked up whatever he's needed, and he has stayed at hers. He doesn't know why he's avoiding the place, really. Maybe it's the quiet. 'I need to make it liveable again before you wake up – Mrs Higgin's going to kill me if there's still milk in the fridge after a month...'

A month.

A. Month.

He holds Logan 's hand as he speaks, looking mostly at it rather than Logan ' face, unable to reconcile the image of the man before him with the man he knows, the man he –

He just wants Logan to open his eyes and speak, even if it's to insult everyone within earshot.

Please.

It's an hour before Patton leaves, brushing his lips against Logan 's cheek before walking quickly away, not wanting to give himself a chance to change his mind about going to their flat. It's snowing slightly, wispy flakes that flutter in the cold breeze and are only beginning to settle on the ground. Passing open shop doors, Patton hears familiar music filtering out from tinny speakers and scowls at the reminder that Christmas is only two weeks away.

As his cane more than once threatens to be more of a hindrance than a help on the frozen ground, Patton abandons his plan to make it on foot to their flat and hails a cab instead, struggling to maintain his resolve to return there.

Only one coherent thought reverberates around his mind as he travels; blank web pages.

Blank web pages, a limp, and intermittent tremors in his left hand; just some of the things that seem to define Patton's life without Logan , he thinks, remembering the hours of staring at the laptop screen and willing himself to write something, anything, in the little white box in front of him. Just hit a key. Just type 'hello'. Just say something. But nothing comes, nothing ever comes.

Besides, he tries to rationalise, his blog seems to be entirely made up of recounting their cases – so it's just on a short break at the moment...no point writing in about nothing, after all...this just means there will be all the more to fill in when Logan wakes...

He hasn't paused to consider the possibility of Logan not waking up, not really; he hasn't let himself. He won't let himself; there's no point, because it isn't going to happen. Logan will be awake any day now...by Christmas, at the latest, he'll be awake...

Time is slipping past in strange chunks, Patton thinks, standing before the door of their flat. He barely notices sometimes when hours pass him by, or he can feel as though a minute lasts a day. It's been like this for weeks now. Ever since those long hours in the hospital waiting room; he should be used to it, but he still finds it impossibly disorientating.

Leaning against the wall, laughing and panting after the chase after the taxi, turning at the sound of someone at the door – his cane – Logan 's warm smile – warm and genuine and brilliant...

He should be opening the door, rather than standing here thinking of anything he can to delay entry. He's being stupid, acting as though Logan has – as though Logan is going to...he's being stupid. He unlocks the door, and climbs the stairs heavily, gritting his teeth –

Following Logan to see the flat for the first time, intrigued by this strange man, curious, but uncertain –

Nothing has moved since he left. Harry has followed his instructions for once, to the letter; entering, picking up what he has told her to, and leaving, without touching a single thing.

Books piled everywhere as they try to decipher the sprayed yellow messages, a mess of paper and boxes, Logan 's frustration and focus. Patton is tired and he really should sleep but Logan isn't stopping and Patton doesn't want to, either –

The television screen is gathering dust. It's thick with it now, and a layer covers everything else as well; more proof that the room has been abandoned for weeks.

Logan curled in the chair with his coat wrapped around him, shouting at the television about the turn-ups of someone's jeans. Patton typing, oblivious to the deception, buying into the lie –

The first aid kit is still scattered across the floor. Mrs Higgin's didn't do much more than pick up what was needed when he kicked it there, not wanting to fuss over the room when he was so close to collapsing from sheer emotional exhaustion...

His thumb trailing across Logan 's cheek, Logan 's pale skin, leaning together, warm breath –

Everything seems to remind him. Nothing specific, no pattern to the flashbacks; they're just there, popping up at the slightest suggestion of something that might jog his memory. Moments of the before while Patton struggles to comprehend there being an after. For now, he will resolutely remain stuck in the during, until he can stand the thought of what might follow it.

Suddenly, as though receiving an order, he straightens with a deep breath and walks through to the kitchen, looking neither left nor right as though he has blinkers on, grabbing a black bin liner from the drawer and pulling open the fridge door, all without a pause. He's not going to stand around moping; he needs to sort this place out, ready for Logan. He drops the milk bottle into the bag without even attempting to open it, does the same for a half-eaten loaf of bread and the cardboard box containing a single, solitary egg.

Two empty pot noodle containers follow them, amongst other detritus littered around the kitchen. Patton moves carefully so that he doesn't nudge or disturb any of Logan 's experiments, lifting the bag above his head so that it doesn't collide with the array of delicate looking glass tubes and flasks.

Once he has swept all the rubbish he can find into the bag, he moves to the living room and throws most of the now dusty first aid supplies into it as well, packing what is salvageable back into the box and clipping it shut.

It takes him over three hours to completely raid both rooms, give them a cursory once-over with a duster and wipe the worktops in the kitchen down so they are at least approaching hygienic. By the end, he has a bulging, tied black bin liner and is feeling distinctly grubby himself, but much better for it. Cleaning has kept his mind busy and meant he's had a break from the constant fight against what ifs. For a while, he has thought of nothing but what needs to be done. He's been able to solve a problem, however minor, which gives him at least some sense of control. Now that he's finished, though, he finds himself at a loss. The what ifs are returning with force, now that he no longer has action to drive them away; he finds himself drifting towards Logan 's room without thinking.

He stands in the doorway.

Most of Logan 's belongings are in the living room, so it's relatively empty in here. Logan has few hobbies, few if any interests outside his violin and his work, so there is a distinct lack of clutter. His bed is unmade. Patton assumes Logan deems such things boring and unnecessary – much like doing the washing up or the vacuuming. His mouth tugs itself into a small smile without his permission, though he isn't sure what about the thought is amusing...merely somehow...endearing.

Across the covers, thrown back messily on the bed, are Logan 's torn clothes from after his fall on the ice; Patton moves towards them dazedly and sinks onto the bed beside them. He realises numbly that the bag is still in his hand and fiddles absently with the knot. He feels a twisting guilt in his stomach as he picks up the ruined trousers, shirt and jacket, and places them almost tenderly on top of the rubbish already threatening to spill from the bin liner.

It feels wrong to be doing this but he reassures himself with the thought that were Logan here, he would be doing the same thing anyway. They're just clothes, they don't mean anything. There's no use in keeping them in this state.

But when he picks up the coat, also ripped down the right sleeve, Patton can't bring himself to even consider throwing it away. He lets go of the plastic bag and runs his fingers over the damaged fibres thoughtfully, feeling the material in his hands. The smell of the coat, faded but still completely, uniquely Logan , wafts towards him and he breathes it in deeply.

Logan running – it could be anywhere, he runs so much; after the taxi, after killers, just because he's in a hurry...the coat flaps behind him, whirling dramatically when he turns –

He sits for a long while, perched on the edge of the bed with the bin liner slumped beside him and the coat in his hands, twisting the course fabric absently. He can't throw it away. It's a good coat, he tells himself, that's why – he can get it fixed somehow, throwing it away would be a waste. He'll get it mended, he promises himself; it will get fixed.

He isn't sure what 'it' is referring to anymore.

'There are nine planets in the Solar System,' Patton tells Logan 's hand quietly. He rubs his thumb over the back of it, careful not to touch the needle, thinking of delicate experiments and intricately played violins. He smiles grimly at the thought of what Logan would think of his 'conversation' topic; just something to say, anything to say. He remembers Logan looking up at the stars, and saying they were beautiful...he doesn't want to know about them, but still...if Patton must talk about something, why not the Solar System?

Except, he reminds himself firmly, he's getting it wrong already. Logan wouldn't appreciate that.

If I must have these facts, give them to me accurately.

Patton can almost hear him say it, and quickly corrects himself. The imagined voice makes his chest ache.

'Eight. Sorry, there are eight planets; Pluto was demoted. It's a dwarf now apparently...all the planets orbit the Sun, and the Earth is the third out; Mercury and Venus come before it, then Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus and Neptune. And then Pluto. Not a planet.' He pauses and watches Logan closely, raking his eyes over Logan 's face, his hands, searching for any sign of life or recognition; a twitch, a flicker of his eyelids. His search is as fruitless as he knew it would be, but he cannot help himself.

Thirty three days. If – when – Logan wakes up...it is becoming less and less likely he will do so without any form of damage. What if he's not the same? What if his mind...Patton thinks selfishly that he wouldn't care, so long as he is alive and awake, but if Logan is no longer...no longer brilliant, what will that do to him? Would he be able to live like that?

What if something else is gone? His memory? What if he wakes up and does not recognise Patton?

It doesn't matter now. Patton closes the thoughts out firmly and concentrates on what he has to say, determined to keep talking, keep Logan aware of his presence on whatever level. Logan should know he is here. Nothing else matters at the moment...just being here, and teaching Logan about the Solar System. That's all. He takes a deep breath.

'Some of the planets also have moons orbiting them. The Earth's most recognisable satellite is The Moon, but it does have others...I can't remember the names, and you aren't interested, so let's skip that bit,'

Yes, lets. Sarcastic. That's how Logan 's voice would sound; sarcastic and bored, but he would probably listen anyway, or pretend to at least until something else caught his attention, even if he would simply delete the information or pick it apart afterwards...

'Umm...Mars has two moons, Deimos and Phobos – that's Greek for terror and fear, by the way. Saturn has seven, but I don't know what they're called...Uranus has five, Neptune has one and Jupiter has four...Jupiter is the biggest planet...'

He talks for over an hour, reciting everything he knows or thinks he knows about the Solar System and probably repeating some of it; by the end his throat is dry and his voice is hoarse from use, but he feels better, somehow, for it. It's...cathartic. Maybe this is the same sort of idea as writing his blog was supposed to be?

Some ten minutes after he has exhausted the topic of the Solar System, a vaguely familiar doctor comes in and greets Patton automatically, running through the routine checks on Logan as Patton watches. The man is tall – possibly taller than Logan , almost bald and with a long nose and fingers. He has small, dark eyes and a constant line between his eyebrows; a permanent frown of concentration. He looks severe, though his voice is gentle, and his demeanour matter of fact and professional. Patton wonders when he became quite this observant...Logan must be rubbing off on him.

'Any change?' says Patton. He knows the answer will be no, of course, but can't stop himself from asking the question anyway. He's fully expecting the usual practised reply, possibly followed by gentle reassurances not to give up hope. The grave look on the doctor's face makes Patton's heart sink, and his chest contract with fear.

'No,' Doctor Beckett replies slowly, pausing as though carefully measuring his next words before he speaks them. He gives a small sigh and straightens to face Patton, whose hand reflexively tightens around Logan 's. He's holding his breath, gritting his teeth, knowing that's not all; he's heard that every day so far, and never once with that expression on the doctor's face.

'What?' says Patton eventually, fighting nausea. His eyes are fixed on Beckett. He refuses to let them lower themselves to Logan 's face; he knows he couldn't stand it right now. 'What's different?'

'Nothing,' Beckett assures him.

'Something's different,' Patton insists stubbornly, 'there's something you aren't telling me. Say it.'

Beckett is silent for another moment, weighing his options and looking at Patton sympathetically. His eternal frown deepens. So does Patton's concern.

'Not that it necessarily need be a worry just yet...'

'Just tell me.'

'Well Mr Patton, you are a medical man, I'm sure understand...it has been over a month since –'

'Only just,' Patton interrupts, for some reason needing to assert this fact. No, no, no, no – he's not saying this, he's not saying it, he's not saying it, it's not true –

'Nevertheless,' another pause. Patton hates how drawn out this is being made; part of him wants Beckett to turn around and leave now without another word. Another part wants it said quickly, so that it's over and out. So they are no longer dancing around the issue, significant looks and unsaid concerns floating in the air between him and everyone else because no one dare say what they're all thinking...

'I think we ought to begin considering the possibility that Mr Logan will not regain consciousness.'

And there it is. It's said. It doesn't echo in Patton's ears; it falls flat in the air, and for all the reaction he gives Patton could be deaf to it.

But he's not. Oh, God, he's not, and he wishes he were. It settles like a rock, like a mountain, in his chest, compressing his lungs like an anvil. A complete dead weight stopping him breathing; he's heavy with it, literally unable to do anything more than stare.

Mr logan will not regain consciousness.

'You –' Patton begins, but the word dies in his throat and all that comes out is a sort of incomprehensible squeak. He swallows and tries again, dizzy. 'You don't know that,' he says. It isn't what he planned to say. He doesn't know what he planned to say, but it's what comes out, and he finds himself desperately grasping at it as his only hope. It's not true, it can't be true...they can't really be thinking...but hasn't everyone been? Hasn't he? Doesn't he know, medically, the likelihood of every outcome already? Thinking the words in the back of his mind though, and ignoring them, is quite different to having to hear them out loud, hear them spoken in such grave tones. 'People wake up after years sometimes,' he insists dumbly.

Mr Logan will not regain consciousness.

'As I said, it's not something you need to necessarily be concerned with precisely at the present time, but it should be remembered that –'

'Shouldn't you be having this conversation with his brother? He's family, I'm just...this isn't...it isn't my place to discuss this.' I don't want to discuss this. I can't. I won't.

'I have already spoken to Logans brother; he has told us in no uncertain terms that any medical decision regarding his brother's treatment or welfare is to go through you.'

'He didn't say – anything else? He didn't...' didn't argue? Didn't tell you to stop being stupid; that of course Logan 's far too stubborn to let this happen? He didn't even object? Somehow, Logans brother agreeing on the subject makes it even worse.

'I was told simply that all information was to be passed to you, and that you were trusted explicitly to make any necessary decisions.'

Necessary decisions.

Patton looks towards the ventilator, just for a second. He knows what that means. He feels sick.

'I'm not making any – you don't know that he won't wake up. You don't know.'

'Doctor Patton, I'm telling you that it is a consideration which needs to be made, not that you need to do anything yet. It has been over a month. You know the prognosis. You need to be prepared for the worst.'

'Only a month,' says Patton distantly. He realises that his grip on Logan 's hand is painfully tight and forces himself to loosen it, but refuses to let go. 'You just said it. There's still time.'

'I know that,' he assures Patton gently, 'but please; be realistic. You are a doctor. You know the facts.'

But facts don't apply to Logan – Logan doesn't follow rules and predictions, he isn't like other people. What is true for them is not necessarily true for Logan – he does nothing else like the rest of the population, why should this be any different to that? Predictability is boring and pedestrian; two things Logan could never be, even if he had the inclination to try.

'I know Logan ,' he says, and understands now the position of patients in the face of medical jargon, prognoses, truths. They don't always hold; they aren't the whole picture. They can't be, just because if they are, it isn't only Logan who will not wake from this nightmare.

'He may never wake up, Doctor. I am truly sorry, but you need to face that fact. And even if he does...really I am sorry.'

'He will wake up.'

'Doctor Pat–'

'He will.'


	6. Breathe.

Beckett regards Patton for a long moment in what Patton can't help but feel is a very patronising manner. Then he nods and leaves without another word. Patton doesn't look at Logan for over a minute. He stares instead at the spot Beckett just vacated, entirely unable to accept what he has heard.

Mr Logan will not regain consciousness.

...Necessary decisions.

Decisions he is expected to make, but he can't – how can they expect him to say –? Do they really think that he'll just – just give up? On Logan? Not just now, but ever? What does it matter to him how long he has to wait for Logan to wake up? Because he will; Patton knows he will.

And the doctors...the doctors are one thing.

Logan's brother is quite another. He knows Logan, he has to understand that things are different for him; he can't be just...accepting this. Can he?

I have already spoken to Logan's brother…medical decisions…through you.

Through him...everything is to go through him. His brother isn't even getting involved? He isn't even showing an interest in his own sibling? Suddenly Patton is furious. Anger coils itself in his chest like a snake as he fumes at what he can't help but see as Logan's brother treachery; his betrayal.

'I'll be back soon,' Patton tells Logan quietly. He finally manages to settle his eyes momentarily on Logan's still form, reluctantly letting go of his hand and swallowing, picking up his cane and limping from the room. He ignores the various glances from the nurses; tells himself he is imagining that they are full of pity, but he can't help but feel angrier with every step. By the time he's stood outside the hospital door, he rams his hand into his pocket for his phone with such force he almost tears the stitching. He punches in Logan's brothers number and paces as he listens to it ring.

'Pick up, pick up, pick up...' It rings and rings, and it does not answer. 'Damnit, pick up your phone!' He shouts into it, earning himself nervous looks from passers-by. He barely notices, doesn't care, breathing as though he has just run a marathon. He quickens his step, wearing a line in the pavement as he pivots every few strides and walks back over the same spot, gripping the phone and staring at the ground, muttering under his breath.

The ringing stops; answer phone kicks in. Patton swears loudly, jams the hang up button so hard it hurts and redials.

'Answer the phone Deceit. Answer your fucking phone!'

There's a click, and the ringing stops.

'Doctor Patton,' Deceit says smoothly, 'to what do I owe this pleasure? I'm sure it must be quite urgent, I'm afraid I'm rather busy at the moment.' Deceit's indifferent tone only serves to infuriate Patton further, and he has difficulty keeping his anger in check.

'I'm sure,' he says through gritted teeth, 'so busy you can't even take the time off to realise that your brother is in a coma?' Though his mind still offers the customary argument of no, he's not, he's not in a coma, he's not…

'I assure you, Patton, I had not forgotten.' His tone is still polite, but there is a veiled danger to it now that Patton can't help but recognise; it does nothing to calm him down, though.

'You could have fooled me,' he says, equally dangerously. There's a brief silence on the other end of the line.

'May I ask what you are talking about, Patton? I –'

'I'm talking about you not giving a damn about it, that's what I'm talking about! So much for your constant concern –'

People are definitely staring now, but Patton is impervious to it. All his energy and attention is on Deceit, and his utter disbelief that the man could be so stunningly indifferent to his brother.

'Stop there, Doctor Patton,' the veil has gone; Deceit is definitely angry now. Patton feels a savage pleasure at the thought of breaking the barriers of the elder man, not intimidated in the slightest even though he knows he probably should be. 'Do you think for a second that I am not concerned for Logan?'

'Well, now you mention it; yes, that's exactly what I'm saying. Yes.'

'And why would that be?' Again, he's cool and calculating. The switch wrong-foots Patton for a split second but he quickly rights himself, determined to get his point across.

'Oh, I don't know. Maybe I just expected someone who actually cared to be here. Maybe I thought as his brother you might want to hear what the doctors have to say. I don't know, I'm probably wrong, but I would have thought your concern extended to listening when they start talking about him not waking up. About making necessary decisions – and you aren't even here to make them. You just bump them on to me – you're far too busy to get involved...'

'Patton –' he's so angry he misses the sudden gentleness to Deceit's voice.

'They're talking about turning off the machines, Deceit! And you told them to come to me. You expect me to deal with this and you can't even be bothered to listen to the fact that your brother might be dying –'

Deceit doesn't interrupt, but Patton stops, horrified.

Dying.

That's the first time he's said that. The first time he's even acknowledged it as a possibility; with that single word all the fury, all the energy, drains out of him completely and he stops pacing. He stands totally still with his heart pounding in his ears. The city roars around him, carrying on as ever and leaving him standing wide eyed with shock at his own words. He moves dazedly towards the wall and leans against it, his legs unable to support him properly, closing his eyes. He feels heavy and empty at the same time, reeling with the shock.

'Patton,' this time he doesn't miss the genuine concern in Deceit's tone, and guilt settles itself on him, weighing him down even more on top of the force of his outburst. All the fight has gone. 'I apologise. Do you imagine I suspected for an instant that you would make the decision to switch off the machines?' He takes Patton's complete silence for his answer, and continues, 'really, I thought you would appreciate some measure of control, and I truly cannot be away from work for very long. I had complete faith that you would make the right decision.'

Still, silence.

'Patton?' Now, Deceit sounds almost doubtful. Patton holds the phone weakly, unable to speak. 'Did you consider it?' He waits, this time, for Patton to reply.

'No,' Patton says, quietly but with complete conviction.

'Then we are in agreement.'

Patton doesn't return to Logan once he has hung up. He stays leaning against the wall outside, people still giving him a wide berth and casting him concerned looks. He takes deep, calming breaths and tries to work up the energy to move, holding the mobile loosely by his side with his eyes closed.

He listens to the city around him; drinks it in without trying to unpick it...he doesn't identify one noise from another, doesn't even try to differentiate. He simply lets the rhythm wash over like a heartbeat. There are pounding footsteps, voices, shouting. He can hear cars, dogs, bikes; a slammed door…even the pigeons dodging between people's feet as they rush across the pavement in front of him. It all rolls into one sound as it reaches his ears...

It lets him disconnect for a while, but he has to come back eventually and opens his eyes reluctantly to see the source of the noises. Everything moving so quickly past him; all entirely unaffected by Logan's absence.

That's the problem with this scene, though Patton doesn't even have the energy to be angry about it anymore. These people, they don't know; they don't know how much they are affected by this – how much Logan has probably already changed their lives without them even noticing. All the crimes solved and criminals caught, and all those that won't be if he doesn't wake up. They don't know, and worse, they don't care...it makes Patton want to scream, to shout and make them see. It also makes him want to hide and just sleep until this is all over.

Every single one of them, the whole city, all of it has been influenced by Logan and hardly anyone even gives a damn, they just carry on while Logan stops – how can they?

A soldier; a police officer...when one is injured or killed it makes headlines, and people stand up and they notice. It might not change the way they live, it might not make them feel anything more than a passing sorrow or anger at the situation, but at least they know. It's never enough, not to Patton, but it's something. Logan should have that.  
\-----------

Sometimes, the fog in Logan's mind lifts itself a little. He still can't make himself move. He still can't make sense of his situation, but sometimes at least he is aware of something; something more than drifting, disconnected thoughts that aren't even fully formed.

This heightened alertness is almost always accompanied by a sound. He can't identify the sound, can't manage to glean any sort of meaning from it whatsoever; it's just there. He doesn't know what it is or where it comes from, or why it sometimes goes away. He especially doesn't know why it seems so inextricably linked to the ordering of his thoughts, like it focuses them somehow. But it's...familiar. He knows the sound, which makes it all the more frustrating that he can't work out what it is.

With as much self-awareness as he can muster, he dreads the moments when the sound goes away, because then things make even less sense. He hates being at a loss like this, but he's beginning to forget there ever being a time when he wasn't...things have always been this way, surely? Whatever this way is...what else is there?

Where does the sound come from? Why does he want it to come back? It's here now, and Logan desperately tries to unravel it, recognise it; memorise it so that when it goes away he won't be so lost again. If he can recall it into the silence then maybe he will be able to think then, too?

For some reason the blackness has receded, just a little, and there are little glowing spots of soft light around. He can't touch them, can't do anything more than look, because he isn't entirely certain he's actually a physical thing himself right now...but they look nice, he decides. They come from the sound, he's sure of it, or the sound comes from them or something, he doesn't know. But they are connected somehow...the same kind of familiarity is stirred by the lights as the sound...

Little round globes and little soft lights, almost like stars, and a distant, muffled, muddled noise. They are all that he has apart from darkness, and he clings to them; anything to tether himself in reality, in something that makes sense. The longer they stay, he is positive, the closer he will come to working out this mystery and finding a way out of wherever he is...

There's another sound too, for a while. One he doesn't recognise, and instantly doesn't like...but as long as the first sound stays then it's alright, he can still think, still try and identify them. His mind is still active and working, not falling into terrible stagnation...

Then they both go away. The glowing orbs fade and there's just the murkiness of everything and nothing. There's nothing to keep him focus; there's no sound anymore to bring some small measure of clarity to him. He's fading too; his sharpening senses are dulled again and he's in silence, blind...he can't concentrate, can't think...and why is that familiar, too? He doesn't know, because his brain isn't working without the sound here…

\--------------

Forty-two days since the accident. Nine days since his conversation with Doctor Beckett.

Patton can't breathe.

His chest is bursting, his head spinning, and he can't breathe. He claws instinctively at the murky water that is surrounding him but forgets everything he's ever known about swimming, relying on pure desperate instinct and his choking need for oxygen, for air, for light. He's sinking deeper or else falling unconscious; the blackness at the edge of his vision is growing. Everything is blurry and his eyes sting from the water. There's so much of it...

One moment like treacle, so thick he can barely move, the next thin as air and nothing to push against. He can't get any purchase on it, reaching for something, anything to hold on to…he kicks and pulls and he'd be screaming if he just had the breath or the energy. No energy left to fight it; there's light above him. Light and beautiful, wonderful, essential oxygen…but he can't reach it. He'll never reach it...his muscles are weak and giving up. No matter how hard he pushes them, his kicks are slowing down, losing their strength...

But no – he just needs air, that's all, one breath, one lungful. He fights the urge to inhale, the water pressing, suffocating around him; it has never felt so wet and that's all he can think of. It's so wet and he needs something dry and clear, but there's nothing. Nothing to grab onto, to pull himself to the surface, and he must have been down here hours...

He's falling now, definitely falling deeper. His arms and legs aren't heeding his commands anymore, they won't move, and it's getting dark...

There is something, something far, far above him, too far. A hand, a pale hand is reaching for him, and he tells his arm to move, to reach back, but it won't. He hears distantly a shout, and it's familiar, but he can't hear what it's saying. Don't they know he can't hear them? The water, how is he supposed to listen when he's underwater?

He should have hit the bottom by now, but there is no bottom. He just keeps sinking, further and further from the air and he wonders vaguely if he really is going to drown, but he can't really feel anything about it. Somehow it doesn't scare him...

The hand is so close, inches away...and then so far, he can hardly see it anymore, much too far...he swipes half-heartedly at the water in front of him but his fingers meet nothing but liquid...

The shouting is dimming now, fading to nothing – and then loud again, loud and close and –

'You are dreaming, Doctor, wake up.'

Patton wakes up gasping for air, gulping it in frantically and forcing the quilt away, its weight suddenly suffocating.

He doesn't recognise the voice, and doesn't turn his head to see its owner. He doesn't even notice that whoever it is, is standing uninvited in the middle of his room at two o'clock in the morning and telling him to wake up as though it's noon.

He only knows that he can breathe again.

He's more tired now than when he went to sleep, but forces himself to take slower, deeper breaths and blink away the image of the pale hand reaching for him, ignoring the panicked shouts he couldn't answer. Finally he looks at the intruder.

It's Deceit.

'What are you – is it Logan?' Instantly wide awake, Patton stares at Deceit urgently as he awaits the answer, panic coiling nauseatingly inside him, 'is something wrong? Has something happened? What's –?'

Deceit holds up a hand to silence him, his face expressionless.

'Deceit, tell me –'

A soft, genuine smile begins to tug at the corners of Deceit's mouth.

'He's awake.'

Patton's eyes widen. His heart skips a beat, then doubles pace to make up for it. His ears are ringing; he didn't hear right, he can't have –

'He – what? He's – are you –?'

'Please don't ask me if I am serious, Patton, it would be most insulting. Yes,' he says, the warmest Patton has ever seen him, 'Logan is awake. And asking very specifically for you.'

'He's – asking for me?' It won't sink in. He can't believe it, can't process the thought. It pounds in his head repetitively but doesn't connect with anything enough to make him feel it properly. Something like relief is beginning to seep through, making him lightheaded. Something like joy, like jubilation, but so much stronger –

'Yes. He is most insistent. Shall we?'


	7. Accidentally on Purpose.

Patton throws on his clothes without thinking and ends up with only one sock and his baby blue polo shirt inside out, but he couldn't care less even as he climbs clumsily after Deceit into the waiting black car. Its sleek interior would make him feel out of place at the best of times, but it doesn't even register now.

Less than ten minutes have passed since he opened his eyes to Deceit standing in his bedroom at two in the morning but already Patton is more awake than he has ever been. He feels as though he has downed at least ten cups of coffee and cannot keep still, fidgeting constantly in his seat. His leg bounces jarringly and he taps his finger on the doorframe in time with its staccato rhythm, radiating impatience.

It doesn't seem real, and part of Patton 's mind keeps telling him that it isn't, and he's still asleep. The rest knows better. His slumber never offers him anything like this, only nightmares and replays of hellish memories, but he still can't accept it. Not until he sees Logan with his own eyes. Something is holding back relief until he does, but he can feel it pressing in on him. It's suffocating; terrible and wonderful at the same time because he daren't believe it, but he is desperate to.

Deceit, by contrast, is so utterly still that Patton can barely see him breathing.

He's awake.

No more talk of necessary decisions, no more avoiding dreams to push himself into exhaustion, no more choking back memories of Logan's blood – no grey, monotonous streets. Even now in the mid-December pre-dawn darkness, everything is so much more alive than it has been in weeks. The decorations no longer look garish and ugly, but tasteful; the dancing colours cast a soft glow over his face as he peers out of the window at them. The ice is not bleak and black, but glitters like crystals under the twinkling decorations.

Awake, awake, Logan is awake, asking for him - he is most insistent –

His manic, chaotic train of thought judders to a halt abruptly. His chest constricts with guilt like a physical pain; Logan, asking for him, Logan waking; alone in the hospital. Logan confused or disoriented or just plain annoyed to find himself confined to a single room; angry or afraid or any number of things. Suddenly, Patton realises that Deceit has not given him any idea what to expect, and worry coils itself uncomfortably inside him.

'Deceit ,' he starts – it comes out as more of a croak and Patton clears his throat before trying again. 'How is he?' he manages to ask uncertainly, feeling that he probably should have spoken before now. They are almost at the hospital, and fear is overtaking relief in its battle to permeate Patton 's defences.

Deceit turns to face Patton , his face unreadable, and affects his own version of a tiny shrug, which he manages to make appear as neat and carefully planned as everything else about his person. 'There seems to be no permanent damage, if that is what you're asking. He began to show signs of waking up not long after you left yesterday afternoon –' he forestalls Patton 's indignant interruption with a raised hand. 'You were not called because at that point it was far from certain he would regain full consciousness, which he has now had for just over an hour. His speech and movement are rapidly improving though still causing him some frustration. His memory seems almost intact, excepting a few understandable lapses. He's very irritable, though I have assured the doctors that this is hardly something to be concerned over.'

'That's it?' asks Patton, finding himself smiling – a little muddled, a little clumsy? He feels bad for the relief the news causes, knowing how infuriating these normal human inadequacies will be for Logan, but he can't help it. 'That's all?' His logical brain is demanding how how how? In a voice that sounds rather like Logan. His heart is screaming I don't care! So loudly he's surprised Deceit can't hear.

'That is all, Doctor,' Deceit replies, his expression softening, 'Logan is as stubborn as ever, and I doubt he is going to let something like this keep him incapacitated for long.'

Deceit 's pace is quick, but to Patton every step seems to take an age. He forces himself not to start sprinting, maintaining a speed that keeps him level with the elder man as they move through the near empty corridors of the hospital. Patton does not spare a glance for the few people they do pass, does not even register whether they are patients or doctors. He has to concentrate to keep his breathing level and prevent himself marching ahead of Deceit.

After what feels like hours, Patton sees the now all too familiar door to Logan's room (a private one; Deceit 's doing, presumably. Why has it never occurred to him before?). He doesn't realise he has broken into a run until he feels his palm make contact with it, hard, and hears it crash open, bouncing off the wall. Even now he doesn't slow down, doesn't even stop to really see Logan properly, he doesn't even think. He just rushes forwards and crushes his lips against Logan's.

'You – if you –' he mutters between kisses, both hands tangled in Logan's hair and pressing him closer. Logan's right arm curls automatically around Patton 's back as he reciprocates, the left one squashed between them strapped in a sling. Patton relishes the feeling of warmth the touch causes; the sheer, overwhelming reality finally washing over him in waves so that his knees literally go weak. He has to sit on the edge of Logan's bed to prevent himself collapsing. It's real, it's real, it's real – he's awake; he's here, alive and breathing for himself, moving, pulling Patton towards him...

It's with enormous reluctance that they eventually give in to the need for oxygen and break apart. Patton keeps the distance between them to no more than a few inches as he whispers urgently, 'don't you ever – don't you dare – do that again. Do you understand?' and God he's alive – not just Logan, but Patton , he's alive, he's awake, he's not drowning anymore –

'I'll do my best,' replies Logan in a low voice. It sounds like forming the words is an effort, as though it costs him more concentration that it ought to. His eyes are clear and focused, though; there's no confusion in his expression, and so what if his speech is mildly slurred? The sound of it, the sight of his smile, almost causes Patton to lose the last of his composure.

There's a noise behind them, and Patton glances around to see Deceit nod politely at them as he pulls the door closed, after ushering the doctor out in front of him. Patton turns back to Logan and opens his mouth, but Logan gets there first.

His eyes travel intently over Patton 's face, taking in every detail and cataloguing them, drinking them in hungrily. 'Oh, don't be so predickable. Predickable. Pre – dic – ta – ble.' He corrects himself slowly, scowling his displeasure at the mistake. Patton 's brow creases in confusion.

'I'm sorry?'

'Guilt,' Logan clarifies, 'it's pointless, un – unfounded and boring.'

'Sorry,' says Patton , and means it. Logan rolls his eyes, but there's no real malice in the expression. There's a long, uncomfortable pause, before Patton mutters 'I just kept thinking...you know...if I had been sat in your place, then –'

'Don't,' Logan interrupts forcefully, forgetting to concentrate on the word so it comes out even sharper than he intended, 'just don't.'

\----------------

He wants to tell Patton , he needs Patton to know – he doesn't even understand why Patton should know, he simply ought to...that now Logan has worked out what the sound was. The one that kept him tethered to reality and drew him back across whatever veil kept him lost before. He doesn't know why he never realised because the answer is so painfully, completely obvious. Because of course it was Patton. It is always Patton.

But he cannot think how to phrase it, so he settles instead for raising his eyebrows and saying slowly, so very carefully, determined not to mess up any of the words; 'did you know that there are eight planets in the Solar System?'

And he can tell, by the look on Patton 's face, that he understands, even when his only reply is to smile and tell Logan, 'nine, if you count Pluto.'

It's a day since Logan woke up. Despite their apparent lenience when he first regained consciousness, the doctors are being frustratingly insistent about visiting hours. Much as he is loathed to accept Deceit 's help most of the time, Logan wishes his brother would intervene.

It's dark. And quiet; Logan doesn't like it.

He can see vague shapes around him, but his surroundings are split into varying shades of grey, broken only by the little blinking lights of the machines that sit either side of the bed. One bleeps constantly. He can hear distant voices from outside of his room, but they are little more than murmurs. He can't make out individual words, though he entertains himself for a while trying to work out what the conversations are about by the tones used.

Of course, it isn't a very useful experiment, as he has no way of testing his conclusions, but it keeps him reassured that he isn't slipping back into the nothingness again. It's foolish, he knows, but every time he closes his eyes and feels the darkness pulling at the edge of his senses...it's uncomfortably similar to before. He can't even focus on improving his speech or dexterity; though he has been assured both will come in time he has never been very good at waiting, and why should he have to?

Blink. Bleep. Muffled footsteps; a hurried conversation. A phone ringing and something squeaking – a wheel? Someone in a wheelchair, then, or on a gurney, being taken past...a wheelchair, Logan decides, based on the pattern of the sound. It takes him much too long to work out, and his mind drifts vaguely in the meantime. He can't quite seem to concentrate. One person accompanying them, elderly, judging by the slightly shuffling, slow pace – someone small, the footsteps are not heavy...

Blink. Bleep. More indistinct voices. A question; an answer. Buzzing silence...

Blink. Bleep. Laughter, somewhere. Clicking heels. An exclamation. Another phone call. A lull in activity then a baby crying, quickly soothed. The squeaking wheelchair on its return journey. A door opening nearby, then closing sharply. Hurried footsteps, and quiet again...

Blink. Bleep...

Darkness deepening...twisting somehow, shadows taking shape around him...

Blink...bleep...

Swirling...the noises of the hospital seem to fade, still there, on the fringe of his senses, but not registering as strongly as before...a drifting feeling; light, and not unpleasant...

Blink...

Emptiness.

He can't take stock of his surroundings, because there are no surroundings. He doesn't appear to be touching anything, even...doesn't even appear to be a thing himself, he just...exists...as thought, or as...he doesn't know.

Logan looks down, except he isn't entirely certain what down is anymore, and sees...nothing. He tries to turn upwards, but might not move at all, his eyes are greeted by the same all around...not even shapes and outlines, not even darkness, just...a void.

He tries to move his arms and only now realises that he does have a physical body, and that it's trapped, though he can't feel anything binding him in place. There are no cuffs, ropes or restraints; he simply can't make himself move. He tries to call out but his voice won't work either and when he attempts to remember how he got here, he finds his memory a confusing jumble of images and sounds that don't make sense.

He strains his eyes and still sees nothing, so listens hard instead...

There – there! There is something, there must be something, he can hear it – a murmur, somewhere close...but no, it's too far away at the same time. Distance means nothing here, but Logan knows now that there is something there. If it's there, he can find it, and if he can find it, he can get out of here –

Then the sound becomes louder, stronger. Still Logan cannot identify the words, but he feels warmer now...he hadn't even realised he was cold. Suddenly the sound brings meaning with it, wafts through the non-space like wind and bathes Logan in the feeling of a presence, neither sight nor sounds nor smells but knowledge of a familiar identity. He latches onto it desperately, trying to call out, trying to scream for help…but he's still trapped, stuck here. Stuck again. The presence is leaving – but no, it can't leave, it mustn't leave, he needs it, he needs it, he needs Patton ...

\-----------

When Patton walks into the room and sees Logan sleeping, he smiles, knowledge that it is natural sleep quickly dampening the familiar heavy feeling that has accompanied the sight of the detective for the past six weeks. It's good to see Logan rest and know that he will wake up.

But as he draws closer, concern rises in his chest – Logan is not twisting or crying out, but his features are set in a deep frown and a thin sheen of sweat coats his forehead. Belatedly, Patton notices the vice-like grip Logan's right hand has on the sheets. Without pausing to think he rushes forwards to ease the cloth from Logan's fist and replace it with his own hand, using the other to nudge the detective's shoulder sharply.

'Logan! Wake up, it's okay –'

Logan's eyes open abruptly and dart around the room for a split second before resting on Patton 's face. His whole body seems to relax, and his painful grip on Patton 's fingers loosens.

'Are you –?'

'I'm f – fine,' Logan assures him quietly, stumbling a little over the words.

'You were dreaming...'

'And now I'm 'wake – I'm awake.' He pushes himself clumsily into a sitting position, blinking and squinting against the light.

'What were you dreaming about?' Patton asks tentatively. Logan scowls.

'Nothing,' he replies,

'Logan –'

'Really, nothing,' Logan assures him. Oddly he is being entirely literal, and yet Patton does not believe him, though he lets the subject drop with an exasperated sigh and sits down heavily in the plastic chair beside the bed.

'So how are you feeling?' Patton tries, deciding that the topic is best left alone for now.

'Bored,' Logan answers immediately, giving the door a venomous glare as though in the hope that a doctor might come through it and discharge him if he only wills it hard enough. 'Hosp – hospitals are dull.'

'And necessary,' Patton interjects, failing badly at hiding his smile before sobering up and continuing quietly, 'you've no idea how close you came to...' he trails off, unable to complete the sentence. Logan sniffs impatiently,

'Yes, well, I'm 'wake now, and I do wish the doctors would re – realise that I am perfeckly fine so I can get out of here and go back to the – to – go home,' he finishes, frowning.

'The flat,' Patton tells Logan gently, well aware that he treads a fine line between being comforting and being patronising. It's painful to see Logan, normally so articulate, struggling like this, but the knowledge of how much worse it could be keeps him from feeling too bad. Logan looks thoughtful. Or irritated – or both, it's difficult to tell, then abruptly changes the subject.

'So did Chief catch Epps, or not?'

It takes Patton, wrong-footed by the sudden change of topic, a moment to catch up, and the impatience in Logan's face should irritate him but instead he welcomes it, revelling in its return.

'What? Epps – oh! Not yet, no. But there haven't been any more deaths either; he's well and truly disappeared.'

'Nobody just disappears...' Logan mutters slowly. The chase on the ice seems a lifetime ago now. Patton finds himself watching Logan with a mixture of concern and the child-like fascination he still can't help but feel every time he sees the deductive process in action. Concern overrides fascination.

'Don't even think about getting involved in a case this soon,' Patton commands firmly, 'you've barely woken up.'

'I might just slip un – un – con – scious again from boredom if I don't have work. Is that what you want?' he whines petulantly,

'Oh, I'm sure you'll find something to do,' a gleam enters Patton 's eyes, 'I haven't decorated the flat for Christmas yet.'

Logan groans.

Despite his many obvious social inadequacies, it's surprisingly easy to laugh with Logan. This is exactly what Patton is doing when Deceit pushes the door of the hospital room open, but as much as his smile is contagious, so is the lack of it, and Patton 's face falls almost as quickly as Logan's. Their hands are still causally linked, though – until Chief follows the Logan's brother into the room and Patton pulls away. Logan doesn't stop him, but a tiny crease appears on his forehead.

Deceit raises his eyebrows, and Patton, hoping he is not being nearly as obvious as he feels like he is, shoots him a look that says very firmly not to comment on it.

'Chief,' says Logan, pointedly ignoring his brother, who rolls his eyes.

'Good to see you awake,' the Chief Inspector nods politely, a small, genuine smile on his face. Logan is more interested in whatever he is holding, whether by chance or on purpose, behind his back.

'Thank you – but what are you really here for?' Patton and Chief exchange a look that lacks its usual exasperation as the latter moves forwards and hand Logan a thin, official looking file. Logan's speech is even slower and more careful than has become usual, now someone other than Patton is listening.

'Thought you might be interested in this,' Cheif says, 'it's the report on the crash. Nothing in there to suggest anything more than an accident, there's no mystery or anything, but I figured you'd appreciate something to look over while you're in here anyway.' He casts a sideways glance at Deceit, which if Logan catches, he ignores. Judging by the slightly wary expression on Chief's face, Patton assumes the offering was Deceit 's idea.

Logan is already flicking through the few pages present with an air of complete indifference. Patton can't help but wince at the sight of the crushed, twisted metal in the photographs and averts his eyes, but glances towards Chief and mouths thank you all the same. He is fairly certain that for however short a time this keeps Logan occupied, it will be at least a few minutes less of them both being driven insane by the detective's incurable boredom. Besides, Logan will probably demand to see it eventually anyway. They might as well get it over with.

'And Deceit, why are you here?' Logan asks finally without looking up from the file, as though realising that simply refusing to acknowledge his brother's presence is not going to make him disappear.

'Merely to enquire after your well-being,' Deceit replies coolly, a mild expression on his face,

'Why don't you just ask one of your s – your surv – your people watching us?' Chief's eyes flicker momentarily to Patton, who widens his own in a silent plea not to mention the slip. Logan's free hand grips the sheets tightly in frustration, but he gives no other outward sign of distress.

'I am concerned, Logan. Why is that so difficult for you to believe?'

Logan huffs moodily in reply, still not looking up from the file on his lap.

'I'll – err – be going, then?' Chief interjects uncomfortably, gesturing towards the door. Logan waves a hand impatiently and Patton smiles in gratitude as Chief starts towards the door, then pauses. 'I am glad you're recovering, Logan,' he adds, almost as an afterthought. Logan glances up, seems uncertain what to say in response, and nods tightly. Deceit stays for several moments more, then with a small sigh of frustration, follows suit and leaves the room. Logan doesn't seem to notice their exit and remains focused on the file, having found a photograph apparently of particular interest to him, which he is now rotating and squinting at.

Patton knows better than to interrupt and waits instead for Logan to speak. After ten more minutes of closely scrutinising the file, he does.

'Why did you do that?' he asks absently, with only a quick glance upwards. His tone is off-hand, but Patton detects the genuine curiosity behind it.

'Do what?'

'Move your hand.'

For some reason, the question is unexpected; he had not thought about the action, and though he knows why he did it, explaining seems to be another matter. He frowns.

'Are you embarrassed?' Logan asks, still apparently only half interested, though the care with which he forms the words gives him away.

'What – no!' Patton exclaims, suddenly horrified. Surely Logan can't think that he regrets –?

'Ashamed, then?' Logan looks up at last, with a guarded expression on his face. Patton shakes his head imploringly,

'Logan, no, I just – I didn't – look, Deceit knows. Apart from the fact he probably worked it out weeks ago anyway, he was there yesterday when I saw you after you woke up –'

'Yes,' Logan interrupts, smirking, 'not your most subt – subtle move, I must admit.'

'Well, you weren't complaining,' Patton retorts defensively,

'Did I say I was?'

Patton shakes his head, but he is smiling. 'If I was going to change my mind I would have done it already. I've had plenty of time to think. And anyway, Chief doesn't know and I wasn't sure if – oh, I don't know, I wasn't thinking. I didn't know if you wanted him to know, or...' Logan shrugs, a glint in his eyes that is almost mischievous as he reaches forwards and takes Patton 's hand firmly once more.

'I wish you'd stop worrying what other people think,' he says.

'Yes, well, some of us have a little thing called social skills. I know!' he exclaims before Logan can reply, and then they both speak at the same time, and laugh, 'boring.'

'Well that makes two new things on the list of what Chief doesn't know. It's really getting quite long,' Logan says, somewhere between thoughtful and incredulous.

'What's the second thing?' Patton asks. Logan gestures to the crash report awkwardly with his strapped arm.

'This wasn't an accident.'

**Author's Note:**

> John: Patton  
> Sherlock: Logan  
> Mycoft: Deceit  
> Moritarty: Remus


End file.
